


La Mort de l'ABC

by cynical_taire



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 62,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_taire/pseuds/cynical_taire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Now, there they were. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had finally gotten together, and Enjolras had, against everyone’s beliefs, found someone he loved. They had started and led one of the better rebellion groups in America, and were fighting in the apocalypse. And they’d gone through it all together.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Les Amis de l'ABC is a rebellious group currently residing in modern-day Boston. They've faced a lot of problems, but now they face the greatest issue they could ever encounter - zombies. There's a lot of plot, lot of character development, smut, death, and fluff. Really sorry about the "death" part - it's not my favorite thing, either. There's a lot of good relationship stuff though. </p>
<p>Hope you enjoy it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire woke up squirming, his body covered in layer of sweat. He sat up in his small bed and rubbed his eyes as he desperately tried to shake the dream he’d just had out of his mind. It wasn’t even a dream—it was the exact definition of a nightmare. Immediately, his hand scrounged his nightstand for a bottle; he suppressed a sigh when the only bottle there turned up empty. 

His swearing could’ve been heard from the small café down the block. He groaned and rolled over. 

“TAIRE!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Courfeyrac groaned as he navigated his way through the Grantaire’s messy flat—which, as he was an artist, was covered in paint, sketchbooks, stray drawings, and bottles of alcohol—and to the bed. Usually, the optimist would’ve been smiling. Today, he was scowling. When he arrived at the bed, he shook the hungover, cursing man roughly. “It’s nearly noon! Get up and smell the roses!”

Sitting up against the wall behind the bed, Taire shot Courfeyrac a quick flash of his middle finger. “That’s a stupid cliché. Buy me some actual goddamn roses and maybe I’ll get up.”

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras is tired of waiting on you. He told you— _he told you_ —about this meeting, and I’ve never seen him this pissed off—I take that back, I have, he’s _Enjolras_. Ferre and I have had to take the brunt of it. Please, Grantaire, come with me down to the Musain.”

“Why does Enj care if I’m there or not? I don’t mean anything to—”

_“Now.”_

Every bone in Grantaire’s body shook at Courf’s last, harsh word. It was incredibly abnormal for the fluffy-haired man—who was usually optimistic and upbeat, every word that escaped his thin pink lips kind or teasing—to speak with such a sharpness to his tone. Whenever his friend spoke like this, Grantaire went into automatic fight or flight mode. He bolted up, and, even though he was taller than Courfeyrac, it felt like Courf towered over him with the glare he gave. 

“Let’s go.” A small grin crept back onto the optimist’s face, seeing the notoriously cynical Grantaire in such a startled state. “We needn’t get Enjolras’s panties in a twist. God knows that happens too often.”

# ~

They arrived at the Musain three minutes later, out of breath from sprinting down block. The small café was located at the heart of Boston and home to Les Amis de l’ABC, a strong organization of students from the local university who believed in justice, fairness, and equality (a popular nickname that Les Amis had earned over the years—mostly by the local law enforcement—was “The Pain In The Asses”). 

Technically speaking, there were only nine members of the ABC: Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and their fearless, supposedly ruthless and heartless leader Enjolras. Of course, there were others who joined in on their quest for liberty. A common friend was Gavroche Thérnardier, a small boy of twelve, who was practically raised following the ABC’s beliefs. Marius Pontmercy, a hopelessly in love man who had a bad tendency of acting like an oblivious puppy, was another friend of the group. 

The Musain tolerated the ABC’s obscene righteousness, loud lectures, speeches, and plans because they often drew crowds, which brought in pay for the café. 

Grantaire wasn’t exactly committed to “The Cause” (Enjolras’s motivation for the ABC’s actions). That didn’t matter to any of his friends—except probably Enjolras—because they still tolerated him coming to the meetings when he wasn’t too drunk or too hungover to listen. Courfeyrac enjoyed his company, even if the cynic mostly stayed in the back and kept to himself and a bottle of alcohol. Out of everything Les Amis had to offer, Taire absolutely loved watching their beautiful leader, and he was one of the only reasons R returned. The way Enjolras moved, the way he led… he was Taire’s Apollo. 

Apollo was _not_ happy to see Grantaire when he and Courfeyrac arrived. Instead of exploding, though, Enjolras continued speaking without acknowledging the painter’s presence as Taire slid around to a back table. Enj didn’t even make eye contact with Courfeyrac; that’s what gave Grantaire the hint that he was focused on what he was saying. Or just pissed off beyond belief.

Probably both. 

“—we’re so close, gentlemen. Equality is right in front of us! This is one of the biggest advances we’ve made in a very long time, and we have more in store. If you haven’t heard the news, the month of June has been declared LGBT Pride Month!”

The Musain erupted at this news. Grantaire just made his way to the bar. 

“Next week, our banners shall rise!” Apollo continued over the cheers. Taire turned around to stare at him; he really was beautiful, especially when he was acting all fierce and confident. His golden curls fell around his face, and he was sweating lightly from putting so much energy into his speech. 

Enjolras’s bright blue then fixed on Grantaire as he said his next words, which thoroughly startled the cynic. “Do not fear, my friends. The time is near; let us welcome it gladly with courage and cheer! The day is _ours!”_

The café erupted again, and Courfeyrac came back to join Grantaire at the bar. “Isn’t this great? Can’t you just imagine it… free to date and marry whomever you like, to love whomever you wish…”

Taire noticed Courf’s eyes were flickering from him to the table where Enjolras and Combeferre were chatting lightly while the Musain celebrated. 

“Oí! That, my dear Courfeyrac, will never be up for grabs. At least not for me. Getting legal rights to flaunt my gayness won’t change my plans on never getting married.”

“Except to Enjolras.”

“No. I never expect to get married.”

The other man looked at the ground before perking up quickly. “Can I marry him then?”

Grantaire snorted, but before he could give his usual reply of “You forget that Enjolras isn’t interested,” an alto voice rang out through the Musain, silencing all the other voices and cheers.

“How’s progress on the gender-equality coming, _Enjolras?”_

His name was said as if it was acid on her tongue. She pushed through the men with all of them watching her, until she got level with their leader. He was nearly a head taller than her, but she didn’t seem to mind. She just swept her brown hair behind her ear and glared at him. 

“Well?”

“We’re making plenty of progress in gender-equality, thank you for asking. The news of Pride Month was just a bit more exciting—”

She scoffed. “Right. So why are their still women working the same job as a man, and being paid less? Why aren’t employers treating women and men based on the same level, not choosing the man when clearly the woman is more qualified? Why is it that I’m the _only woman in this room?_ Why is—?”

“Éponine,” Marius warned, standing up where he was. Grantaire shot a look at Courfeyrac, whispering, “Gavroche’s older sister?”

Courf nodded once. 

“Hush, Puppy,” Éponine said, not breaking eye contact with Enjolras. “Now, Les Amis, answer this for me: _Pourquoi tous les hommes doivent être des porcs sexistes?”_

The question—spoken in French—received lots of jeering from the group of men, mostly from Bahorel. Combeferre stepped up and grabbed Éponine's shoulder gingerly. “Éponine Thérnardier, correct?”

She turned stiffly, but didn’t shake away Ferre's hand. “That would be my name, yes.”

“Why don’t we talk outside? There’s a bit you don’t understand about the ABC—”

Courfeyrac stepped up. “I’ll come with you. It takes two to explain this situation to a feminazi.”

Éponine glared at him, but Combeferre tightened his grip on her shoulder and whispered, “He’s teasing. I promise.”

In the end, she agreed to step outside with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The trio sat on a bench outside of the café, and Ferre turned toward Éponine immediately, while Courf silently listened. 

“Gender-equality _is_ a pressing issue in the ABC, I promise you that. I would love nothing more than to see women get the respect they deserve. But LGBT rights and marriage laws have been a priority for us recently because—not to be rude to women—it directly applies to us.”

“Joly and Bossuet are engaged,” Courfeyrac explained simply.

Realization washed over Éponine’s face. “Oh.”

“They’ve been wanting to marry for a long time, but it’s been illegal in a lot of states, including here,” Ferre continued. “Enjolras may seem cold sometimes, but he loves his friends. And if two of his friends are restricted from doing something that should be legal anyway… well, he’s going to do his damnedest to fix it. He’s so proud of what we’ve done in the name of making gay marriage legal, and even getting a government-recognized Pride Month.”

“I didn’t realize. Apologize to Joly and Bossuet for me?”

Courfeyrac promised. “Y’know, you’ve got some ambition. We could use that strong voice of yours. I mean, you made _Enjolras_ speechless. That takes some talent. Come around any time you’d like, we could use you; especially since we’re going to get back to working on our feminist movement.”

“You’re welcome back in whenever you’d like,” Combeferre said. “Always know that, Éponine. You stopped coming to our meetings awhile ago…”

“And we haven’t seen Gavroche in about the same amount of time,” Courf added. “Bring him around sometime. We love having some Thérnardier spice around here.”

Éponine laughed. “Of course. And do me another favor?”

Courfeyrac nodded. 

“Try pulling that stick out of Enjolras’s ass before he hurts someone he loves. Specifically Grantaire.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So these first few chapters are kinda short and just really building background... sorry for that. Promise it'll get better starting around the fourth chapter!

“Do I have to?”

“Taire, you know it would mean the world to Enjolras is you came.”

“No. He wouldn’t care at all if I came.”

“I think you underestimate your meaning to him. Will you for me, then, if not for him?”

Courfeyrac shot some adoring little puppy-dog eyes at R. Grantaire groaned. “Why? Give me one good reason and I might consider it.”

“Well, y’know…” Courf grinned. “Because you love me?”

Taire snorted. “Try again.”

“Because you love Enjolras?”

The cynic wrung his hands. “Son of a bitch.”

Courf grinned eagerly. “You just need a little convincing from the right person, that’s all. Grantaire, we need all the help we can get. Even if you’re not happy about it, your presence is enough.”

“Mhm. My presence just annoys people. I’m not a use to society, Courfeyrac, I’m a burden. I might as well—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

The normally fluffy, happy voice went cold, harsh, and filled with pain. Taire’s eyes widened as a tear ran down optimist’s face. 

“God… I’m sorry, Courfeyrac. I didn’t realize—”

“You never realize, Grantaire. Never. You don’t know how much we— _I_ care about and love you. Please, just… don’t kill yourself. For the love of God, please.”

“I-I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

Grantaire shifted in his chair. The two were talking at the Musain, and Courf had been trying to convince Taire to join them the LGBT Pride Festival that the ABC would be attending the next week. Obviously, it had gone in a different direction.

“Hey, I’ll go to the Festival thingy. I’ve gotta support the ABC, right?”

Courfeyrac started to smile again, the corners of his pink lips upturning slightly. “Thanks, R. Bet you could pick up a lot of guys there.”

“You know I’m not gay, right?”

“What the fuck, Grantaire, you’ve had a crush on Enjolras since _forever._ ”

Taire groaned. “That doesn’t mean I’m homosexual, dude.”

“Yeah, it kinda does.”   
“I’m bi, you idiot.”

“Oh my god, Taire, you did not just pull the ‘I’m not gay’ when you’re fucking bisexual.”

The two continued to bicker on sexuality and their conversation had switched to sex positions by the time Jehan waltzed into the café.

“Good morning, Courfeyrac. Good morning, Grantaire. A lovely morning, isn’t it?”

Jehan was wearing a striped sweater with skin-tight jeans, topped off with flip flops. He had flowers woven into his long, light brown hair and a notebook was tucked under his arm.

“Prouvaire, can I ask you a question?”

Addressing the poet by his last name didn’t faze him. Jehan, in itself, was a silly nickname he’d given himself when he was in middle school. Jean was just too… common.

“Ask away, dearest Grantaire.”

Taire beamed. “Would you rather be pinned down by a guy or ride him?” 

Jehan gasped. “Why—you assume I’m—Grantaire, I’m not…”

“Oh.” R tugged at his curls. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yes! Just because I support gay rights doesn’t mean I’m into that sort of thing. I love Joly and Bossuet together, I think they’re made for each other; that doesn’t mean I’d like to have a dick in my ass.”

Courfeyrac choked on his coffee. Taire bit his lip to restrain himself from busting out laughing.

“Wow, Jehan, I didn’t know that about you,” Combeferre said, walking up to the trio. “I respect your choice and _won’t laugh_ at it.”

“Thank you, Combeferre.” Jehan breathed deeply. “Well, I’m off to the campus to write some poetry before class. It was good to see you all.”

After the poet had left, Combeferre slapped both Courfeyrac and Grantaire with a textbook he was holding. “You two need some goddamn decency! After all the homophobia you’ve both received, you ought to know better than to shame and laugh at someone for their sexual orientation!”

“We weren’t shaming him, Ferre,” Courf explained. “I have nothing against heteros. But the way that Jehan worded it was… c’mon man, it was fucking hilarious.”

Grantaire snorted. “And the dude wears flower crowns. I was totally not expecting him to want to bang chicks.”

“Has it occurred to either of you that he doesn’t want to have sex with anyone?”

Courfeyrac and Taire blinked.

“C’mon, guys! Asexuality? Ever heard of it?”

“Jehan is… asexual? Like… doesn’t get sexually attracted? How is that even possible for anyone—let alone Jehan?”

Combeferre sighed and straightened his glasses. “I have to get to class, like everyone else who has a class before noon. Have fun drinking.”

He skirted off and didn’t look back.

“Taire, do you think Combeferre is asexual?”

“God, no. Haven’t you seen him when he gets a boner?” 

Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose. “ _What?_ ”

“Yeah.” Grantaire leaned back and took a long sip of brandy before continuing. “Whenever he gets aroused, he crosses his legs, and then he excuses himself to the bathroom while pulling his hoodie or shirt down slightly. Happens all the time, haven’t you noticed?”

“WHEN?”

“You don’t have to shout. It happens whenever. I haven’t figured out the trigger yet, but it’s always, _always_ when you’re in the room, sexy beast."

Courf shivered. “Don’t give me that, you son of a bitch. Ferre is not into me. Don’t even try and give me a little bit of hope.” 

“I’m already planning your wedding.”

“And you just got promoted to bitch.”

# ~

“Jehan!”

As Grantaire was hurrying to catch his art class at their university, he saw Jehan getting out of his math class. It had been bugging him since the day before that he had seemed to laugh at Jehan for being straight—or asexual, like Combeferre had told them. Taire knew he needed to apologize.

_Fuck art_ , he thought, _I’m not normally in class anyway._

“JEHAN!”

R caught up with Jehan in a moment, and Jean Prouvaire seemed to be hesitant to speak with him. Eventually, probably out of kindness (which Jehan had lots of), he stopped and replied, “Hello, Grantaire.”   
“Listen, Jehan, I’m sorry about yesterday. We shouldn’t have laughed, and we really shouldn’t have made the assumption that you are gay.”

Jehan seemed to ease up at his statement. “Ah, that’s okay. It’s assumed of me a lot. And, I really should tell you, I’m not straight—”

“Yeah, you’re asexual. Ferre told us.”

“Right.”

Taire smiled. “You can be asexual and still be fabulous.”

The sound that emerged from Jehan was so clear and pretty, it sounded… well, godly. A godly laugh. 

“So, I’ve got a favor to ask, and maybe it’s a start to helping make up to you. About the Pride Festival… I want to go dressed up and get attention and shit. I was going to ask someone else, but… I know how much you love designing and clothing. Perhaps you can help me out?”

The poet lit up. “Of course! Why don’t you stop by my apartment sometime and I’ll… work on something. Come by anytime, really, as long as you don’t mind Joly and Bossuet being there.”

“Nah, I don’t mind.” Grantaire knew he was going to regret it, but he asked his question anyway. “So, uhm, you know a thing or two about romance, right? Could you possibly make the outfit with a bit of… _spunk_?”


	3. Chapter 3

“What the _hell_ has Jehan done to you?”

Grantaire grinned uneasily. Honestly, he felt uncomfortable, ugly, and exposed in the slutty and sexy outfit that Jehan had shoved him into. He wore a tight, black leather t-shirt that dipped low and exposed the little chest hair he had, matching jeans that curved with his leg muscles, and heels. Fucking heels. They were leather boots that went up to his knees, but at the bottom became thin, three-inch heels. They were uncomfortable and difficult to walk in, but it made him strut. Grantaire hadn’t ever found the need to _strut_. 

The worst thing was that Jehan had given him elbow-high lace gloves. Even though Taire considered it terrible, it was probably his favorite part of the outfit.

“You don’t like it, Courf? I told Jehan to make it so you’d get hard.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Well, it certainly comes close, but, uh…” He glanced back at Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly, who were already preaching to an audience of about fifty. “You best leave that to someone else, cause you’re not getting anywhere.”

A mischievous smile crept onto the cynic’s face. “ _Courfeyrac and Combeferre sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G._ ”

Courf was too busy staring at Combeferre to stop his friend’s teasing. Then again, he was probably just too far deep to care.

“I’m going to get closer so I can listen,” Courfeyrac told him, not waiting for Grantaire’s response. R rolled his eyes and left to go check out the rest of the festival. 

He found Joly and Bossuet making out behind a bathroom and—after wondering how the hell Laigle, better known as Bossuet, had convinced Joly the hypochondriac to make out _behind a bathroom_ —thought it best not to interrupt them; Éponine and Gavroche were dancing together while a older man played the acoustic guitar; Marius and his girlfriend—which Grantaire had only met once, but found the blond girl nice, sweet, innocent, and overall perfect for Marius—Cosette, were holding hands and listening to Enjolras, Combeferre, and Feuilly speak (usually it would be Courf up there, rather than Feuilly, but he had been distracted by Grantaire and was too late to join in). Bahorel was drinking at the makeshift bar, and Grantaire joined him, embracing his alcoholic nature.

Taire ordered a shot of vodka, but as he tried to speak to Bahorel, the big guy shushed him and pointed at two girls and a man discussing something.

“—about the disease spreading all over Europe and Asia?” the man was saying. “Just started going into Africa. The government has shut down all airlines going _anywhere_. The borders of the country are on secure lockdown. Nobody gets in, nobody gets out.”

“Tell me more about the disease itself,” one of the women responded. “My wife works for the CDC in Atlanta. She hasn’t been home in a long time because of this disease, and she says it’s strictly confidential, so she can’t tell me.”

The man glanced around, caught Bahorel’s eyes, and called, “You listening too, boys?”

Grantaire and Bahorel both nodded.

“Good. This is something I think every American should hear about, since the government’s not releasing anything.” He cleared his throat. “The disease started somewhere in France about a month ago. Nobody knows its cause or its exact place of origin, just that it started breaking out all around Europe. It spread like wildfire, faster than most any disease ever known to man, including the Bubonic Plague. It’s always worse in the bigger, more populated cities; Rome, London, Kiev, Bucharest, Madrid, Paris, Venice, Cannes, Barcelona. All of ‘em fell within a day or two, lost any communication with anywhere outside the city. 

“Without any water borders between Europe, Asia, and Africa, it started invading the other continents on that side of the world, too. It’s difficult to tell how many countries are still standing, but this disease… it’s destroying countries in _days_. It seemed like the right decision for the US to close off all direct connections with every other country. Communications are still up with the remaining countries, but more fall off every day. As of right now, the government’s trying their best to keep its citizens oblivious, and so far it seems to have worked. I, personally, think most Americans know of the disease, but not about the severity of it. It’s destroying half of the bloody world.”

“You still haven’t said what the disease is,” Bahorel pointed out.

The man sighed. “That’s the thing, you see; nobody _knows_ what the disease is. There’s never been anything like it before. CDC, WHO, all of those damn health organizations… they’re baffled. Stumped, even. The closest word anyone has to describe it is…”

“Is what?”

“… zombies.”

Grantaire snorted. “Are you fucking with me? Zombies? Really?”

The man looked offended. “Young man, if it isn’t zombies, what do you propose it is?”

“Well, it would help if you told me the symptoms.”

“The dead are rising. Healthy, living people are being killed and then turned into… monsters. Those monsters have one purpose and one purpose only: to feed. On human flesh. _Living_ human flesh.”

Bahorel gulped. “Well, I’ll be damned. That does sound like zombies. And it explains why my friend in France hasn’t been answering my letters, calls, or texts.”

“Oh, come on, Bahorel. Zombies don’t exist.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Believe whatever you wish, young man. But, I’m warning you now. The borders around this country won’t hold forever. Gather your family and friends and get some supplies ready. The end is neigh.”

He stood up and left without another word, the two women following him. Bahorel and Grantaire stared at each other for a long time.

“Should we tell Enjolras about this?” Bahorel asked. 

“It might be a good idea,” Taire replied. “I still don’t think it’s fucking zombies, but it’s definitely something.”

“Tell him now or after he finishes?”

“Well, I don't think he’ll be preaching much longer,” the cynic said as the clouds started to produce small drops of rain. “Let’s go. We can’t let him give speeches in the rain, again. Remember how sick he got last time?”

“Awe. That's so adorable. You care about him so much, R.”

“Shut your ass.”

The two got up and gathered their friends, ready to head back to Boston all crammed into one car. It wouldn’t suck too bad if Enjolras hadn’t been driving and Taire could be squished up next to him, but he had no such luck.

Although Grantaire could swear he caught Enjolras glancing at his outfit every once in awhile.

# ~

“Zombies?”

“Zombies.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “It’s just humans having watched too many horror movies. Probably just a stupid disease.”

“Shut up, R.” Enjolras turned to Combeferre. “Do some research on this disease. I want to know every detail about it, or at least as much as you can find.”

Ferre nodded and jogged down the stairs to go back to his apartment. 

Most everyone had already gone their own way, but Grantaire and Bahorel had followed the Golden Trio (the three leaders of the ABC: Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac) upstairs to Enjolras’s flat (which was conveniently located directly above the Musain), where they often met to discuss and debate things that the whole of the ABC didn’t need to have a part in. The story the man had given Taire and Bahorel had startled all three of them, but it was Enjolras who took action. As always.

“We’ll talk about it when we meet again on Friday, when we have more information.”

“Enj, what if we don't have that much time?”

Courf very rarely spoke against Enjolras’s word, but that didn’t hold him back from speaking his thoughts. Enjy looked at his friend with confidence. “I assure you, Courfeyrac, even if this story is true, zombies aren’t just going to show up overnight. You’ll be fine.”

“R said those cities fell in less than a day,” the fluffy-haired man argued. “We could all be dead by then.”

“Aw, Courf, do you need me to sleep with you tonight?” Grantaire teased. “Fight off all the badies for you?”

Bahorel laughed, but Courfeyrac looked relieved. “Would you? I mean, I know it’s weird to ask, but maybe it’d calm my nerves a bit if you slept on my couch tonight. It was you who gave me means to be anxious.”

“Your couch is more comfortable than my ratty mattress,” Taire speculated. “Ah, why not? We can have a slumber party!”

The absurd comment made both Bahorel and Courfeyrac chuckle, which was a score for Grantaire. Bahorel bid all three of them goodnight and whispered to Courf before leaving, “I’ve gotta get a good night’s sleep before the apocalypse,” which rattled him up until he and Taire arrived at Courfeyrac’s flat and R flopped on the couch. 

“Damn, this is a comfy couch.”

“Grantaire?” Courfeyrac muttered. The soft, sad tone he used made the painter shoot up instantly and look at his friend.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“You don’t actually think that it’s _zombies_ , do you?”

Taire smiled. “I guess it’s always a possibility. But there’s no reason to get scared, Courf. I’ll kick some undead ass if any come near you, ‘kay?”

That made his friend grin just a tiny bit. “Okay. I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

Grantaire nodded, and, after Courfeyrac left the room, went into the bathroom to take a nice shower. There wasn’t any hot water at his place, so the warm shower was relaxing. When he stepped out, he toweled himself off to find Courf had taken the clothes he’d been wearing—thank God, he thought—and replaced them with a pair of boxers and a black t-shirt. He pulled them on and waltzed out into the living room, where his friend was sitting on the couch, wearing sweats. Taire knew him well enough to know that he didn’t sleep in anything else, unless he was having sex or dead-drunk.

“I didn’t want you putting those clothes back on. They’re unnerving.”

“I can’t agree with you more.”

He laid down as Courf got up to look out the window. There was silence between them for exactly two minutes, before Courfeyrac said, “Grantaire? Didn’t you say they shut down all airlines?”

“Yeah, why?”

“There’s a plane flying above the city right now. And, uh, it looks like it’s going to crash.”

Grantaire shot up and was at the door in an instant. “We’re leaving. Send out a group text for all of the ABC to meet at the Musain. And Éponine, Gavroche, Marius, Cosette—anyone and everyone you can think of. Tell them to bring food, supplies, boards, nails, anything that will barricade the building. Tell them to do it fast, because as soon as that plane crashes… we’re gonna be attacked with the best possible military force; one that can grow in numbers in seconds.”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe it was zombies?”

“I don’t.” Taire ruffled his hair. “But it’s _something_ , and that _something_ eats people or changes them. And it’s not going to do that to my friends.”

# ~

Ten minutes later, the entirety of the ABC was gathered at the Musain. Cosette had her hair in rollers, and Marius was hugging her close to his body. The puppyish man looked ready to burst into tears, or vomit, or both. Combeferre was typing away on the computer and gazing out the window. Bahorel, Feuilly, and Bossuet were boarding the windows, doors, and any other entries. Joly and Éponine were playing a game of poker, and Jehan was observing their game with great intensity in his big eyes. Enjolras was pacing back and forth, glancing at Ferre every once in a while. 

Cosette had brought her father, who’d introduced himself as Jean Valjean. He was a huge man, and, although he calmed his muscular figure down with a suit, Marius still looked scared out of his mind in his presence. 

“Éponine, when was the last time Montparnasse contacted you?” Ferre asked. 

She looked up from her game and frowned. “Why are you assuming that Montparnasse would contact me rather than Bahorel or someone?”

Combeferre frowned. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I thought… didn’t you two have a thing going?”

Feuilly glanced at Éponine, and she blushed deeply, but otherwise ignored the comment. She pulled out her phone and clicked her tongue. “He texted me about a month ago. I haven’t heard from him since, but that’s because of France and its fucking international phone charges. Montparnasse sent the text from the airport.”

“He hasn’t had any other communication with you?” Ferre looked away from her and raised his voice so the whole room could hear him. “Or anyone?”

There was a low murmur in the room, but no one spoke up. 

“I think… France is gone,” he said, his voice filled with melancholy. “The entire country. The fact that Montparnasse—who is always in contact with someone in one form or another—has gone silent backs up your story, Grantaire. I suspect that Europe has fallen completely off the map.”

Marius let out a yelp and cowered into Cosette, who patted his back and whispered for him to calm him down. 

“But how is that—” Grantaire pointed out the window, right at the continuously falling airplane. “—out there? We all know what it is, and we all know that the airways have been closed for weeks.”

“Well, based off of the fact that it’s crashing, I’d say it’s a plane from somewhere where the disease has flourished. Everyone on board is probably infected, and they’ll be here in... ten minutes? Maybe ten, if we're lucky. They'll infect everyone—soon enough, all of the US will be infected. And as far as we know, it’s the only country left. This one little burst will kickstart it and end the world of living humans.”

“How would it have lifted off, though?” Bahorel pressed. “As far as we know, if it’s zombies, they wouldn’t be intelligent enough to fly.”

Combeferre, while fidgeting with a book on the desk, shrugged. He swatted his short brown hair out of his eyes. “It started out as a set of survivors trying to find refuge? An infected was on the plane and it spread quickly. Simple.”

“So… barricading the café?” Taire murmured, breaking the uneasy silence that had formed after the bookworm’s last statement. “Good or bad?”

“I…” Ferre undid the top button of his shirt nervously. “To be honest, I don’t know. From what it sounds like, this disease makes it’s host stronger. The so-called zombies are faster, stronger, and stupider than a healthy person. There was only one message ever sent describing them, and that’s about what it said. Whether they’re actually dead or not… I don’t know.”

Grantaire straightened up. He seemed to be taking the news better than everyone else in the room, as if the end of the world didn’t bother him. “We’ve all watched enough zombie movies to figure out how to deal with this.”

“How could any of those movies or TV shows or whatever even come close to knowing what an actual zombie is like?” Bossuet asked. They’d finished barricading all the doors and windows except the one Ferre was using, and he was rubbing Joly’s shoulders. “Until now, zombies haven’t existed.”

“Let’s hope they were right,” Bahorel replied calmly. “Because going off of that is better than going from scratch. We can’t just shoot blindly. At least we have something to compare them to.”

“Americans just _love_ predicting the end of the bloody world, don't they?” Jehan muttered sourly, which was so unlike him. “Maybe one of the many different types of ‘zombies’ are accurate.”

“Éponine, shouldn’t we warn your parents?” Feuilly asked, obviously uncomfortable with the subject. The Thénardiers weren’t exact the friendliest people, seeing as they were con artists who enjoyed scamming people for money.

She lowered her eyebrows. “Let them die. They deserve it.”

“What about your siblings? Do they deserve it?”

Éponine bit her lip as Courfeyrac’s face fell, fear in his eyes. “Gavroche?” he questioned. “What about Gavroche? We can’t leave him to die!”

“As much as the little sucker annoys me, I completely agree,” Bahorel chimed in. 

Grantaire looked at Enjolras as the others argued. He was oddly quiet, especially since there was debating going on. The leader was sitting at one of the tables in the back, staring at the floor. His face was blank. 

R did the right thing, as much as he knew he would regret it, and sat next to him at the table. Enjolras didn’t react at all, which was definitely abnormal.

“Hey, Enj,” he whispered, just loud enough for the other man to hear. He held up a cooper coin. “Penny for your thoughts?”

It took Enjolras exactly twelve seconds to even recognize that Taire was sitting there. He finally did speak, though. “How’re you staying so calm?”

“You’re staying pretty calm,” R replied, avoiding the question and sliding the penny back in his jeans pocket (since there was a looming apocalypse and Grantaire hadn’t found time to run back to his apartment, Courf had loaned him a pair of jeans as well as the shirt, and a bag of clothes for the road. He also gave the painter a pair of sneakers, so Taire didn’t have to wear the obnoxious boots). “You’ve barely said a word since we got here.”

Enjy scoffed, looking up to meet Grantaire’s eyes. “I’m freaking out, actually, despite how I appear on the outside. I have… I have no idea what to do. I’m a leader, but I have no idea how to lead. This… Armageddon is way out of my league.”

“You’re not expected to lead, Enjolras. But you are expected to feel emotion. You’re scared, confused, frustrated. It’s understandable. The world is ending, after all.”

He didn't respond, just continued to stare at Taire. 

“Listen, I’m not freaking out because… well, I’ve been expecting this for a long time.” The cynic tugged on his sleeves self-consciously. “I did not, however, expect to be alive to witness it. Remember that saying? ‘Things will get worse before they get better?’”

Enjolras nodded. 

“Bullshit. Things will always get worse. There is no ‘better.’ You just gotta continue to dodge whatever shit God can throw at you.”

“Including the zombie apocalypse?”

“Revelation, y’know."

Enjolras was quiet for a moment. “Grantaire… tell me how to lead.”

The room was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Neither of them realized that everyone was watching and listening, especially after that last statement. 

Taire sighed. “I can’t do that, Enjolras. You know I can’t. Because I have no fucking clue what to tell you.”

“Then _you_ lead.”

The cynic blinked.

“You brought us all here together, and potentially saved us all. You’re very educated on the subject, and I… I can’t. I just don’t know how.”

Courfeyrac shouted, “Hells yeah! R leading us!”

The room slowly started agreeing, and it was overwhelming for Grantaire. This was wrong; he wasn’t supposed to lead. He was supposed to follow.

Before he knew it, he had busted through the only non-barricaded window in the Musain and was racing down the street. The city didn’t seem to be concerned that there was a plane about to crash down on them. People were out partying, couples making out, pretty much anything you’d normally see on the streets of Boston. 

Everything was piling in Taire’s mind; he felt close to breaking. He didn’t even realize it when he ran right into a small person until the boy jumped on his back and tackled him to the ground. 

“Oí!” the recognizable voice said from on top of Grantaire. “What’s up, R?”

“Get off of me, Gavroche.”

“Not a chance. ’Ponine sent me to come and track you down, said she saw you break the window in the Musain while she was walking me there. Said you didn’t look too great. And I’m a fast little fucker.”

“Yeah, I know. You, uh, didn’t need to come after me. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

R sighed. 

“Was it Angel Face?”

“What did you just call him?” Taire demanded. 

“Like it isn’t true. Answer the question.”

“Yeah, it was Enj. He told me… to lead, because he doesn’t know how, but I don’t know how, and how does he expect _me_ to know how? I follow, I don’t lead, I don’t have the mental or physical capacity to lead and I—”

“Shut your cakehole, R. You don’t have to lead, no matter what Angel Face or anyone else says. Just cause the world is ending doesn’t mean that you gotta do something you don’t want to, especially when there are others at perfect ability to do it.”

“Y’know, I’ve always thought you being raised by a bunch of rebellious SOBs has had a bad effect on you.”

“I was a rebellious son of a bitch before I met the ABC. You of all people should know that, considering my parents.”

Grantaire laughed and Gavroche let him up. The twelve-year old boy led him to the Musain, because, as reluctant as Taire was, Gav was too persuasive to walk away. 

When they arrived back at the café, the entire group was looking either guilty or startled. Bahorel was patching up the window, with Valjean's help.

Gavroche and he had climbed inside to find Enjolras standing at the front of the group, awaiting them.

“I stand by what I said,” Enj said immediately. 

Combeferre hissed, “ _Enjolras_.”

“But,” he continued, ignoring Ferre, “I respect whatever you decide. I mostly understand that you don’t like to lead—”

Ferre repeated his threat. 

“—so I will gladly do it myself. I apologize for alarming you.”

“Sorry, Taire,” Courfeyrac apologized, more lightly and less robotic than Enj. “I should’ve known you better.”

Grantaire grinned. “Ah, you know I can’t take you seriously when you have that sad puppy dog look, Courf. Jesus Christ, you look like Marius!”

There was a slight knock on the barricaded door, and the room fell silent except Bahorel groaning, “Can’t that stupid plane just fucking crash already?”

“It’s the Inspector!” Feuilly announced, looking through the small sliver they’d left in the door to peek out. “Do I open it?”

“How much time do we have, Combeferre?” Joly asked. 

Ferre checked his watch. “About six minutes.”

“Open it,” Enjolras commanded. “Combeferre, Courfeyrac—one of you speak with him. You have six minutes to get him away from here and barricade the door again. Joly, Bossuet, Jehan—” He turned to them. “—you’re on supply run. Find a convenience store and get some food, water, weapons; anything that will be useful to us. Take Marius with you, he looks like he’s going to cry. 

“Bahorel, Éponine, check all of the windows and doors, make sure everything is locked down. Everyone else, sit tight.” As everyone started following their orders, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s shoulder. “May I speak with you? In… private?”

Taire, blushing deeply, nodded. They climbed the staircase and were out of sight quickly.

Combeferre pulled apart the door to open it to Inspector Javert. 

“Good evening, Inspector,” Courfeyrac said, smiling brightly at the man’s sagging face. 

Javert’s expression didn’t change. “What’s going on in this café? There’s been noise complaints from the neighbors.”

“Just a party,” Ferre lied. “It’s Courf’s birthday!”

Courfeyrac, obviously a little uncomfortable with the lie, smiled awkwardly. 

“Hmf.” Javert peered inside a bit. “Keep it down, or I will shut this party down.”

Ferre and Courf beamed falsely. “Of course, sir! Thank you.”

Courf closed the door in his face and Cosette got up to help them with boarding it up. While Javert had been visiting, Valjean had hidden himself and Cosette under a table.

“Why’d your dad do that?” Courfeyrac asked her. “Hide under the table?”

“Oh, he and Javert have had a long-lasting feud,” the blond girl said sweetly, as always. “That was before Papa adopted me, of course, so I don't know the exact story, but I know that he feels the need to stay out of Javert’s line of fire.”

Cosette seemed to be taking the apocalypse very well; better than most of the guys, at least. She was smiling and sweet, like nothing had changed. 

“I wonder what Enj and Taire are talking about,” Courfeyrac murmured. 

Gavroche snorted from the corner. “Probably confessing their undying love for each other.”

Cosette, completely serious, commented, “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“We all know R’s been in love with Angel Face since they first met.”

“And Enjolras has been in love with The Cause since he could process conscious thought,” Combeferre muttered, killing the mood. 

“Ferre!” Courf complained. “Where’s your sense of _lo-ove_?”

He crossed his arms. “I love a lot of things—and people.” His face was growing red, but not from anger. “Also, I wasn’t finished. Grantaire is the first person Enj has apologized to in a long time, and he does an awful lot of staring at Taire’s hands.”

The room erupted with laughter. Everyone went silent, however, when a voice ripped through the room. “Are Joly, Bossuet, Marius, and Jehan back yet?”

Grantaire sulked back to the corner as Enjolras took charge and spoke again. R looked slightly smug, a little amused, and all scared. Whatever Enjolras had said to him had frightened him out of his skull. 

Just as Combeferre opened his mouth to speak, there was a crash outside, and the ground started rumbling. It sounded like… 

“The plane crashed,” Joly informed them as he climbed back in the window, Bossuet, Marius, and Jehan right on his heels. At once, almost everyone in the room surged forward to try and barricade the window. It ended up being Grantaire and Éponine who got it attached firmly. 

“Welcome to the apocalypse, boys,” Éponine laughed, throwing her arm around Taire. “Let's bash some brains.”


	4. Chapter 4

_“Grantaire.”_

_R was shaken out of his trance as Enjolras spoke his name. He had been staring out of the plexiglass window in Apollo’s apartment. It wasn’t boarded up and locked like the other windows, mostly because of its structure and because Enj had asked them not to. He wanted to keep watch over the streets of Boston._

_“I do sincerely apologize for putting you on the spot like that.” Wait… was Enjolras… blushing? “I wasn’t thinking. But Grantaire… and I swear to God if you ever tell anyone I told you this… I’m scared. I’m so scared, and I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to do. You called us here to protect us. Grantaire… you saved us all. But now, I’m expected to lead them. It was just an impulse to tell you to lead, because I thought that… maybe you would do better. You care about them so much, even if you deny it. I know you do.”_

_“I know exactly as much as you do about this situation.”_

_“You knew to call the ABC here to save them. You knew that.”_

_“Awe. No, I didn’t know that. I acted on impulse, as well. Courfeyrac saw the plane.” The corner of Grantaire’s lips upturned. “You know, you don’t have to lead them. I’m sure Combeferre or someone would help out. Not everything has to rest in your hands, Enjy.”_

_Enjolras started to give a snappy response, but instead, he whispered, “Please don’t call me that.”_

_Shocked at his softness, the cynic murmured,“Alright, that’s fine. I won’t call you that anymore.”_

_“Grantaire?”_

_Taire looked up, and found Enjolras’s beautiful face less than two inches from his own. Apollo was smiling. It was the most beautiful smile he’d ever ever seen.“Thank you.”_

_“Uh, um, anytime.”_

_“R,” Courfeyrac hissed. “GRANTAIRE!”_

Taire shot up, his eyes wide. Courf was sitting on a bed with him, and R couldn’t quite remember how he’d gotten there. 

“Waz goin’ on?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “You passed out about an hour ago. Enjolras tested you, and he said your blood-alcohol intake was pretty low, so it wasn’t from drinking.”

“Damn, I had the weirdest dream.” Grantaire rubbed his eyes. “Zombies, man. They’re  
fucking fuckers.”

The fluffy-haired man’s smile faded instantly. Even Courf’s hair seemed to droop. “You think… oh, Grantaire.”

He realized the truth a little two quickly. He hadn’t dreamt it, he had lived it. Even the part with Enjolras that close to him…

“So, it really is the end of the world, huh? Why did I pass out? The last thing I remember was the plane crashing.”

“Yeah. Joly figured it was just a scare. Perhaps the crash triggered a memory or something that caused you to fall unconscious. Enjolras and I carried you up to his apartment, and he said to put you in his bed. I offered to watch you, fucker.”

R shook his head. “Enj tested me, right? That’s what you said. Why… Why didn’t Joly? And why did Enjolras carry my up, and not Bahorel?”

“He feels kinda responsible for you,” Courf answered. “I dunno why. I guess maybe something that happened when you were talking to him?”

It was obvious Courfeyrac was pushing for details, but Taire shoved him away. “The, um, zombies. Have you had any problems?”

His face fell. “Well, yes. A few. They’re feisty sons of bitches. Not too terrible, and nothing we haven’t been able to fight off. I think… I think the whole city is down. The power cut out about twenty minutes ago, but Valjean fired up a generator that’s been keeping the place going. People are dead, Grantaire. So many people. People we knew, people who followed the ABC, people we hated.”

“God, that sucks. At least we’re safe, right?”

“For the moment, it appears so.” 

“Good.” Grantaire removed the blankets and swung his body so his feet were touching the floor. 

“Dammit, Courfeyrac!” R tried his best to cover up his skinny legs. “You fucking _undressed_ me?”

Courf was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t undress you.”

Taire groaned. “Then who the _fuck_ did?”

“I did.”

Grantaire blushed deeply when his voice echoed through the room. _He_ was leaning in the doorway, his favorite red coat buttoned tightly around his torso. 

“I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable while you… slept,” Enjolras told him, avoiding eye contact. “You busted your chin when you fell down, and there was blood all over your shirt. I cleaned you up as best I could… Jehan is trying to soak the shirt you were wearing.”

“…thank you.”

He smiled, finally meeting his gaze. “Anything for y—a friend.”

“ENJOLRAS, GET YOUR REBELLIOUS ASS DOWN HERE, WE’VE GOT A FUCKING PROBLEM!”

Enj flinched at Éponine’s screams. He suppressed a sigh and returned his gaze to the floor. “Why don’t you clean up and dress? You can use my shower, if you wish; I don’t exactly see another option. Come and join us when you finish.”

Before Grantaire could respond, Apollo was down the stairs, Courfeyrac at his heels. Taire groaned and muttered, “I guess they’d seen enough of me for one day.”

# ~

“Jesus Christ.”

Joly was stitching up Grantaire’s chin while Enjolras measured his blood-alcohol level. 

“He hasn’t been drinking very much,” Enj declared. 

“That’s surprising,” Combeferre said, completely lacking in sarcasm. “Joly? Any guesses?”

Joly finished his stitching and leaned back, holding his hands (which were covered by gloves and had some of Grantaire’s blood on them) up and away from everyone, like the hypochondriac he was. “I would assume it was a phycological problem. We all know Grantaire has them. It probably just triggered a bad memory or something.”

Enjolras sighed. “I’ll get him cleaned up and into a bed. He’s had a rough night already, no need to put any more stress on him when he wakes.”

Joly nodded. “That’s a good idea. I, on the other hand, am going to go scrub my hands a few thousand times and burn these gloves.”

Bossuet followed him into the back to help scrub his fiancé down, and Courfeyrac assisted Enjolras in carrying Taire up the stairs and into Enj’s apartment. It’s not that Grantaire was particularly heavy—he was very light and Enjolras was rather strong—but Enjy figured it best not to deny Courf’s help. The last thing he wanted to do was to accidentally drop R. 

They set the thin man on Enj’s couch, and Enjolras rushed to get some warm rags. Courfeyrac leaned back as Enjolras began stripping the clothes off of Taire. He only left his boxers on him, and Enjolras was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

He’d taken Grantaire home many times before (without R’s knowledge, of course), whenever the alcoholic would get too drunk to walk home. Secretly, over a long period of time, he’d grown to care for Taire quite a lot. He found himself getting flustered whenever the cynic was around, especially after he’d accidentally walked in on him showering once. They never spoke about the experience; Grantaire had been staying with Courfeyrac and Enjolras hadn’t realized that he was getting out of the shower when he went in to relieve himself. He couldn’t help but stare at Taire’s gorgeous wet body, and, thankfully, Grantaire had wrapped a towel around his waist before Enjolras’s unannounced entry. If he had been fully naked, Enjolras wasn’t sure what he would’ve done. Just from seeing the majority of R’s body, he had gotten a boner that was so noticeable, he was sure both Grantaire and Courfeyrac had figured out about Enj’s attraction to the painter. 

Now, as he slowly undressed the man he’d secretly admired for quite a long time, he felt his entire body becoming red. Courfeyrac was watching him smugly, not offering to help. Enjolras scrubbed the blood off of Taire’s face, neck, and chest. He ever so badly wanted to undress him fully and take him into the shower and cleanse him, but he kept reminding himself that 1) Grantaire was unconscious and 2) Courfeyrac would begin to question him.

So, he tucked the cynic’s corpse-like body into his bed and, while Courfeyrac was looking away, snuck a kiss on the man’s forehead; he fortunately restrained himself from planting kisses on every one of the long, thin scars on the man’s wrists, shoulders, stomach, thighs, and ankles. 

# ~

Combeferre was frustrated. 

Not about the zombies, or even the end of the world. He was frustrated with his friends. 

Ferre took is as his responsibility to watch over what his friends did, especially when it came to their relationships. Using his wits and the obvious fact, he figured out all of the secrets in the ABC. 

When Enjolras came back down stairs after caring for Grantaire, he immediately asked for a drink. Enj made a point of not drinking or doing drugs, mostly because he hated giving money toward those big corporations, but after all that had happened in the past hour, Combeferre silently excused him. 

“How’s Grantaire?” Ferre asked when Enjolras sat down with a full shot glass. 

“Yes.”

Combeferre wrinkled his eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

“Ask Courfeyrac.”

“You seem kind of… distressed.”

“No, the window is well barricaded.”

“Enjolras, your hair is on fire.”

“Mhm.”

Ferre sighed. 

The door banged, and Bahorel and Feuilly jumped up with their muskets. They aimed them at the door as there was continued banging, the only other sound coming from the snapping of teeth and Marius’s small whimpers as Cosette held him close. 

Enjolras was back in the game, slowly creeping up to the door. He grabbed the revolver he’d tucked into his jacket and pointed it right at the door handle, which was jiggling constantly. 

“Silence,” Combeferre demanded, and even Marius’s cries silenced. There was no sound from anyone living. 

The door busted open, and two people came bursting in. Not people, but… zombies. They exactly resembled the zombies Ferre had seen on TV. The peeling flesh, the hungry, crazed eyes, the bony figure. Bahorel and Feuilly both shot at them on instinct, but one was taken down by Enjolras and the other by Valjean, who’d pulled out a gun. 

“Repair the boards,” Enjolras commanded. “Make sure any more don’t try and make an attempt at getting in.”

“What took them down?” Joly asked. “I didn’t see…”

“Headshot,” Valjean answered. “Makes them drop to the floor.”

Feuilly’s hand twitched on the revolver in his pocket. “How do you know that, Valjean?”

Valjean blinked. “Zombie movies. You always shoot them in the head, and then burn the empty corpse.”

Cosette smiled. “Good thinking, Papa!”

“We don’t really know much about you, Valjean,” Enjolras said, picking up on Feuilly’s train of thought and putting on his serious face. “What’s your history?”

Valjean was obviously uncomfortable. “I was the mayor a small city in the suburbs of Massachusetts. I adopted Cosette when she was younger from her foster home, and we’ve been moving around constantly since.”

“Right. But why did you hide from the Inspector?” Bahorel asked.

“Cosette said you have a long-lasting feud with him,” Combeferre said in Valjean’s defense, remembering overhearing the girl say this to Courfeyrac.

“Why?” Enjolras questioned. It was obvious he wasn’t going to let it go. 

Combeferre saw how reluctant Valjean was, and how he kept glancing over at Cosette. Whatever he had to say, he didn’t want to say in front of her. 

“Tell me about it,” Ferre said, not really thinking. “I’d love to hear your background. Perhaps we should go in the back?” He pulled his revolver out of his pocket and tossed it to Jehan. 

So they did, with Enjolras shooting both of them glares as they walked together. Cosette was gazing worriedly, but for some reason, Combeferre felt perfectly at ease. 

“Honestly, if I’d been put on the spot to tell my entire back story, I’d be nervous, too,” Ferre chuckled when they got somewhere private. “I thought you might be a little more relaxed if it was just one, and not all, and you weren’t being threatened. Because even if it doesn’t seem like Enjolras was threatening you, he probably was.”

“I… thank you…”

“Combeferre,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand. 

“Jean Valjean.” They shook, Valjean’s huge hands masking Ferre’s rather small ones. 

“Alright. Do tell. I am _ever_ so curious. And I promise I won’t kill you or arrest you or anything—not that arresting you would mean much. It’s perfectly okay to speak freely.”

Valjean took a deep breath. “I was young and foolish. My sister’s child… he was starving, you see, I had to help him. I tried to smuggle some bread for him—just a few loaves— and Inspector Javert caught me. Thankfully, I wasn’t arrested. They let me off with a warning, but Javert wasn’t happy about it.

“I tried to redeem myself, and rose up to become mayor in the town I was living in. I could… I could provide for my sister and nephew. It made me so happy.

“Then… well, I saved a girl from dying. Fantine had been fired from her job without reason under my watch, and I felt remorse. She had needed to pay for her daughter’s living, because her daughter was being cared for by some innkeepers who claimed to be her foster parents. Fantine resorted to many things to make some money, including prostitution. She got caught, and was going to be sent to prison if I hadn’t stepped in and called it wrong. As the mayor, I had a bit of persuasion. She was on the verge of death because of the cold, so I took her into the hospital, where she died. 

“I knew I had to take care of the child that she left behind, so I came to Boston to meet the innkeepers. They had been raising three children, one of which was Cosette. I bought her off of them and took better care of her from then on out. She is my life, Mr. Combeferre. I cannot leave her.”

Ferre was starting to tear up a bit, but he just smiled at Valjean. “You have done no wrong, Valjean. Please, you’re welcome to stay. I assume… you don’t want Cosette knowing the full story?”

“It would break her heart if she knew.”

“I will tell Enjolras what I need to convince him, and he is fully capable of keeping a secret. Thank you for informing me.”

Valjean nodded and walked back into the main room. Enjolras shot Combeferre a glare as he came back out, but before he could say or do anything, there were voices coming from his apartment. Grantaire had awoken.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to update as soon as I can... it should start getting interesting this chapter. Please leave me feedback! I'm always open for positive, negative, and neutral comments. Hopefully it'll also help me improve my work.  
> Thanks for reading!

“—WE’VE GOT A FUCKING PROBLEM!”

When Enjolras and Courfeyrac got downstairs, Éponine, Bahorel, and Marius were holding the door with their backs. There was loud groan admitting from behind the door. 

“FUCK!” Éponine shouted. 

The groaning got louder. 

“Shut up, ‘Ponine!” Enjolras whisper-yelled. Feuilly, who was right beside her, clamped his hand over her mouth, which made Gavroche chuckle. 

The room fell completely silent, everyone staring at the door. Slowly but surely, the banging slowed. Whatever zombie was out there decided that the ABC wasn’t there anymore, and left them alone. 

“Éponine, here’s a little tip.” Enjolras grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the door. “Shut your mouth around those things.”

“They’re attracted to sound,” Combeferre said, backing up his friend. “They’re similar to children. If they hear anything loud or see anything sparkly or smell anything tasty… they’ll lunge. And it doesn’t help us that their senses are probably enhanced.”

Enjolras let go of Éponine. “I know none of us are used to keeping quiet, but it’s necessary right now.”

“What’re we going to do?” Jehan asked. “We can’t exactly stay here forever. There aren’t enough resources to keep us sustained for more than a few weeks.”

“Holy shit,” Courfeyrac said, as if it was just dawning on him, “the world is ending.”

“We’ll stay here at the Musain as long as we can,” Enjolras announced. “It’s safe, for now. Then, we’ll have to go out there. Hopefully, we’ll survive.”

“Very encouraging, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Enj ignored him. “For now, rest. We need to keep our strength up. Someone stays on watch at all times. Courfeyrac, you take the watch.”

Courf nodded, and positioned himself by the door. The others dispersed; Joly and Bossuet cuddled on the ground behind the counter; Éponine grabbed Gavroche and put him to bed under a table, and then laid down close to him; Combeferre decided to sit with Courfeyrac so he had someone to chat with, and Courf smiled gratefully. Feuilly settled down close to Éponine and Gavroche, Bahorel just leaned on a wall and slid down, and Marius and Cosette curled up together. Valjean casually watched them as he sat on the bottom step of the staircase. 

Enjolras trotted upstairs to check on Grantaire. _No, not check on him_ , Enjolras thought, _Just to… make sure he was okay._

_Dammit, that’s the same thing._

When he stepped through his apartment door, he immediately regretted it. Just as he walked in, Grantaire was stepping out of the bathroom in his boxers and black t-shirt, toweling off his outrageous curls. 

“Hey, Enj,” R greeted him casually, sitting on the couch. 

Enjolras wasn’t sure what to do. His cheeks were already growing hot, and his palms sweaty. He aimlessly slid beside Taire, keeping his distance subtly. 

“How was your shower?”

_Shit shit shit_ , his voice was higher than normal. 

Grantaire didn’t seem to notice. He just yawned. “Good, I guess. Hot.”

“Did you, um, figure out what might’ve triggered your… thing?”

No, _no_ , Enjolras _did not_ get flustered. What was it about this man that made him so… in love? 

_He’s fucking hot._

_Shut up_ , Enjolras told his thoughts. 

“Yeah, I think so. Just some stupid war memories.”

Enj blinked, dumbstruck. “You were… you were in the military?”

Taire gave him a humorless laugh. “Guess you didn’t know as much about me as you thought, huh? Yeah, I spent some time in the Marines. Just a year or two, actually. That’s why I’m further behind with my classes than the rest of you.”

“I thought you…”

“You thought I was held back a few times? I wish. It would’ve been better than the service. Got a few permanent scars from that.

Enjolras was speechless. For some reason, he’d never pictured R in the military. He was lazy, and ignorant, and obscene, and…

“Oh.”

The dots connected. Grantaire’s scars, his cynical attitude, the way he always chooses to follow, rather than lead, his drug and alcohol addiction, his laziness; it all made sense.

“You… Grantaire, why haven’t you ever told anyone?”

Taire raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“You’re an orphan, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just… everything about you. Your attitude, your lifestyle… how could you have never told anyone?”

“Damn, that’s some great deduction.”

Enjolras paused, pondering whether he should speak what was on his mind or not.

_Fuck it._

“‘ _Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known_?’”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Did you just quote _The Phantom of the Opera_ , Enjolras?”

“So, what? Answer my question.”

“My parents weren’t exactly the greatest in the world, okay? I got neglected a lot as a kid. That doesn’t matter. It didn’t help the way they… whatever. That doesn’t matter, either.”

Enjolras took the other man’s hand. “It _does_ matter! Nobody should… you shouldn’t have been neglected. You’ve never deserved that.”

“No, I deserved it. I wasn’t exactly the greatest kid in the world, either.”

“Stop it.” Enj balled his fists. “You can’t see yourself, you douchebag. You have no idea how amazing and wonderful you are. You’re a brilliant painter, and you—”

“You were singing Christine’s part,” Grantaire interrupted, almost eager to change the subject. “Does that make me the Phantom or Raoul?”

Enjolras was taken aback, but answered seriously. “The Phantom, obviously. Christine was singing to the Phantom. ‘ _Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known_?’” He was singing now, whereas he hadn’t been before. “‘ _God gave me courage to show you… you are not a-lone_!’”

He couldn’t help it. The way Grantaire had casually dismissed him, the way Taire was staring at him now, and how Enj had pretty much just sung the most romantic line of that song to him; Enjolras lunged at Grantaire just as Christine had to the Phantom—he kissed the cynic passionately. R was surprised at first, but slowly started to kiss Enj back. 

Enjolras pulled back and chuckled. “You really have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I really do, actually. Would you… kiss me again, Enjy?”

Enj grinned widely and happily obliged. He pushed Taire back on the couch and twisted his fingers into the cynic’s curls. When he kissed Grantaire, R’s lips didn’t taste like alcohol or drugs. It tasted like him. And _fuck_ , Enjolras _loved_ it. 

He was hesitant, but couldn’t stop himself from grinding against Taire. The painter moaned. Oh shit, he fucking _moaned_. Enjolras exploded; he pushed his erection against Taire’s again. Grantaire’s boner was more visible than Enj’s because he only wore boxers. Catching a quick glance, it encouraged Enjolras to practically rip off Grantaire's shirt and run his hands along the other man’s chest. He traced Taire’s pelvic lines before tugging off his boxers. He pulled them down the his ankles and licked his lips at catching sight of the cynic’s cock. 

His head was spinning; they’d gone really far, really fast, and they hadn’t even spoken about what was happening. However, that didn’t stop him from gripping Grantaire’s dick and tugging on it hard. 

It hadn’t dawned on him that he’d left the door wide open, and they were both moaning loudly. 

A pouty voice came from the doorway: “I wanna join in!”

Enjolras jolted upright to find Combeferre and Courfeyrac standing at the door. They both wore a different expression—Courf looked amused and whiny, Ferre looked relieved, like he’d been waiting for Enjoltaire longer than Enjolras. 

“Please, I haven’t had any action in months!” Courfeyrac complained. 

Enj tried his best to cover the naked Grantaire, since he was still wearing clothes, and R wrapped his arms around Enjy, peering over his shoulder. _Fuck_ , that was a turn on, with Taire’s well-defined hands clutching onto his chest…

“No,” Combeferre said grumpily, his mindset changing in less than a second. 

“But Ferre—”

“Dear god, Courfeyrac, can’t you see they're having a moment?”

Courf bit his lip, thrown off by Combeferre’s harsh tone. “I—I’m sorry.”

Ferre gently shoved Courfeyrac out of the room. “Go. Let them… do the thing.”

The fluffy-haired man snorted as he was pushed out the door, the bookworm right behind him. The door slammed shut, and Enjolras turned to look at Grantaire, not breaking their position. 

For once in his life, the leader found himself absolutely, completely, thoroughly speechless. It’s like he was looking at Taire again for the first time—like the light in the room was shining solely on him. Enj suddenly became very much aware of every place Grantaire was touching him… his _hands_...

“So.”

Ugh, the way his lips moved when he spoke, it made it difficult for Enjolras to think about anything other than fiercely pressing his own mouth against the painter’s, but he restrained himself. 

Just barely. 

“Let’s… talk.”

_Dammit_ , Enjolras cursed himself. He was sure R detected the haste in his voice. He didn't _want_ to talk. But he knew that they needed to.

“Right. Talking.” There was noticeable haste in Grantaire’s voice as well. “Maybe, um… underwear?”

Reluctantly, Enjolras eased himself off of Grantaire and grabbed his boxers from the floor. He averted his eyes and Taire dressed himself again; not out of politeness, which it seemed like from the naked eye, but because of the simple fact that Enj never wanted clothes on Grantaire again, ever, and if he saw the man naked again, he wouldn’t _allow_ clothes to be put back on. It was for his own restraint. 

“You know,” Grantaire started, and Enjolras’s gaze shot to him as he spoke, “you’re an excellent singer.”

“Perhaps.” Enjy sat down on the couch, closer to R than he normally would. He had the feeling he was allowed to—well, he’d always had a feeling he was allowed to, but that’s besides the point. “Grantaire, this will, in fact, sound very juvenile, and childish, but… I like you.”

Taire snorted. “You mean, like, like-like me?”

“Shut up! I’m trying to say something serious!” He was stern, but R’s comment had made him laugh while doing so. _Fucking hell_. “But… yes, I suppose so. I… am very attracted to you.”

“Really?”

Enjolras had expected something sarcastic to fall from the cynic’s lips, but instead Grantaire sounded surprised. Like he couldn’t believe that Enjolras was telling him this. Taire's voice was so soft and gentle, it tugged on Enj’s heart. 

“Yes, of course.” Enjolras stroked the side of Grantaire’s face. “You couldn’t tell?”

At this point, Enjolras was purposefully being sarcastic and silly to try and bring Taire back to his usually self. But the painter only seemed awry. “It’s just… I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t _believe_ me?”

He pulled on his tight black curls nervously and responded reluctantly. “No… it’s not that I don’t believe you, necessarily, but… are you feeling alright, Enjolras?”

Enj was taken aback. “Grantaire, I’m feeling fine! I’ve been in love with you for quite awhile now, and I’ve been attracted to you since we first met! You’re beautiful, Grantaire! As much as everyone says you’re not, and as much as you say you’re not, you’re the most beautiful thing that I’ve ever seen! I have a fairly good sense of judgement, y’know.” Enjolras fiercely grabbed R’s hands. “You need to believe me when I say that I love you and I wish you’d stop being so goddamn cynical and hateful toward yourself because when you hurt yourself—” He slid his hands up Grantaire’s arm and stroked the scars he had gotten to know so well. “—you’re hurting _me_ , too.”

Grantaire tried to yank his arms away from Enjolras, but Enjy’s grip was tight and secure. “How long have you known? I mean, obviously you saw my thighs, but… you’ve known for longer than that.”

Enjolras refused to blush, although some part of his brain wanted to. “How do you think you got to your apartment after you got black-out drunk here? Magic?”

“I didn’t—think—you.”

“The first time I did was the night Courfeyrac was sick. He wasn’t there, and someone needed to. I hated it when you’d drink yourself to unconsciousness—still do—but I figured that if you did, I could at least take care of you. Every night that you’d drink until you slept, I would carry you home in my arms. Courfeyrac always offered, but… after that time, I realized how much I enjoyed helping you because I _care_ about you. When we’d get back to your apartment, I’d find you a change of clothes comfortable enough to sleep in, wash whatever of your body I could with a rag, and put you to bed in a position so if you’d vomit, you wouldn’t choke on it and die.”

“You… I… thank you, Enjolras.”

“Do you believe that I love you, now?”

Grantaire pursed his lips. “I’ll consider it.”

“Do you love me?”

“That’s a stup—”

Enjolras repeated the question more harshly. 

Taire beamed. “Stupid question. Very stupid question. You’re the main reason I joined the ABC. Surely you know that I’ve always loved you, Angel Face.”

Those words hit Enjolras very hard, and made his chest become tight. He felt himself smile brightly, in a way he hadn’t in years. Grantaire returned the grin, and they kissed. Not particularly passionate, it was more of a soft, closed-mouth kiss. It was nice.

“Do we have a… status?”

Taire snorted, having to turn his face away from Apollo’s. “Sorry, sorry, that’s just funny to me. After pinning over you for so long, I can’t imagine actually calling you my boyfriend.”

Enjolras smiled at the way Taire phrased his sentence. “Really? I _love_ the sound of that. Am I… _can_ I be your boyfriend?”

Grantaire bit his lip. “You… You want to be?” 

“We’ve already been over this, Taire,” Enjolras ran his fingers down Grantaire’s back. “I love you. I love _you_. And I want to be your boyfriend.” 

R stood there, frozen in Enjolras’s arms, in shock.

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” 

It took the cynic a moment to respond. Enj could almost hear the gears turning in his brain from Taire attempting to process what Apollo said. Finally, he responded.

“More than anything.”

“It’s settled, then.” Enjolras beamed and interlaced his finger into Grantaire’s, holding the painter’s beautiful hands tightly. “I’m your boyfriend, and you’re mine. All mine.”

# ~

Enjolras rubbed his eyes when morning came. The sun was shining brightly on him through the only window, and it was starting to annoy him. 

He just curled in on Grantaire and held him closer. Taire didn’t seem to be awake, which was odd because he had slept longer than Enjolras the day before. That didn’t matter. Enj was enjoying holding Grantaire so close under the warm covers in the peaceful quiet…

“ENJOLRAS! GRANTAIRE! HELP!”

R shot up immediately, and Enj followed soon after. They sprinted—Taire wearing gray boxer shorts and Enjolras wearing black sweatpants and a red tee shirt—down the stairs and into the café. 

Several guns were out, and there was blood on the floor. In the middle of the mess was something Grantaire had never personally seen before: a zombie. It perfectly matched the description of a Hollywood zombie with its peeling flesh, snapping teeth, grayish color to the skin, and crazed, undead eyes. The sight shook Grantaire’s bones; especially since it was wearing a General’s uniform. 

To everyone’s surprise, it was Cosette who got behind it and sliced off its head with a machete. The zombie’s head rolled on the floor and landed at Gavroche’s feet. 

“What?” Cosette asked in response to everyone staring at her in shock. 

Gavroche picked up the zombie’s head and raised it high, awkwardly announcing, “General Lamarque is dead!”

“Is anyone bitten?” Grantaire shouted, making his way through the crowd. “Whose blood?”

Éponine pointed her thumb at Bossuet, who was lying against a wall, blood covering his shoulders and back. Joly was kneeling by his side. 

“Keep away from him!” Taire screamed at Joly, but the medic refused to back away from his fiancé. He shot a death glare at Grantaire. 

“What happened here?” Enjolras asked. 

“General Lamarque—” Éponine snatched the head away from Gavroche, who was acting a bit too smug about holding it. “—must’ve found a flaw in the door. He slipped through and attacked Bossuet, who was on watch.”

“He isn’t bitten,” Joly assured everyone, using a rag to mop up Bossuet’s bloody back. “But he crashed into the wall pretty hard. Dislocated shoulder, maybe? There are multiple cuts on his back and neck from being thrown across the room, but they’re definitely from wood, not the teeth or nails.”

“Someone repair that door before any others pick up the scent of Bossuet’s blood,” Enjolras commanded. Valjean, Bahorel, and Feuilly scrambled to do so. “Cosette…” His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he grinned. “Good job.”

Marius took her in his arms and started to wipe all of the black oil that had emitted from Lamarque and gotten all over her. Courfeyrac came waltzing up to Enjolras and Grantaire, who were once again side-by-side, and gave his best beam. “Mo-orning.”

Enjolras frowned. “Is now really the time for Harry Potter allusions, Courfeyrac?”

“What? George Weasley is my spirit animal.”

Grantaire pushed past Courfeyrac as he was in the center of the room. It was clear on his face that he hated the attention, but knew how crucial what he was going to ask was. “Is everyone absolutely sure that they aren’t bitten? No bites, no scratches? Did it even touch anyone?”

“No,” Jehan answered. “I don’t think so.”

“Make sure.”

“How long does it take for someone to turn?” Marius questioned. 

“I… I don't know. And honestly, Marius, I have no desire to find out.” Grantaire seemed to realize he was in his boxers and blushed deeply. “Just… be sure.”

“So,” Courfeyrac turned to Enjolras. “Did you—as Combeferre puts it—do the thing?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business, Courf,” R snapped, joining them again as the group dispersed. 

“No,” Enjolras told Courfeyrac honestly, and Grantaire sighed.

“Enjolras!”

Combeferre came running out of the back room at full speed. His glasses were slipping down his nose, and he was holding a laptop. 

Enj straightened at Ferre’s entrance. “Yes?”

The bookworm sat down at the table, and a lot of the group gathered around him, Enjolras and Courfeyrac closest to Combeferre. He pulled up a video on a news website. 

“How do you even have internet?” Bahorel asked.

“Hush.”

A man appeared on the screen, and Mr. President began speaking immediately. “ _This is a message for any survivors currently in the New England territory. Everywhere in your area has been invaded. Do not leave your homes. If you still have phone capabilities, dial this number immediately and alert the government of your location._ ” A phone number flashed at the bottom of the screen. “ _Keep your doors and windows closed at all times until a government helicopter can come and retrieve you. Stay as quiet as possible, and, for God’s sake, pray._ ”

The video ended, and the Musain was silent. 

Finally, Jehan brought up the elephant in the room. “Do we phone the government?”

And everyone started speaking at once. 

“It’s not like they’ve ever done anything for us,” Bahorel muttered. 

“I don’t see another option,” Marius said. “If we stay here, we’ll end up… infected. Like them.”

Éponine rolled her eyes. “You pussies. We can’t rely on the government for anything, much less to save our fucking lives. Do you really trust them?”

“A helicopter would attract a lot of attention,” Grantaire commented. “How could they do that without causing a ruckus?”

“Where are they taking the survivors?”

“I wonder how far the infection has spread. They only specified the New England area.”

“What would they subject us to, staying with them? I don’t want to work for the government.”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Why don’t we take things into our own hands? God knows we’ve done more for us than the government ever has.”

“What do you mean, Ferre?” Feuilly asked. 

“Why don’t we go out on our own? Survive this thing. Maybe even study it.”

Again, the room went silent. 

“I’m in.”

For the second time in an hour, everyone turned to stare at petite, blond Cosette. 

She half-smiled. “My major is biology. The natural scientific curiosity stirs in my brain to study this disease. Joly, I expected more of you, in the medical field.” The medic’s cheeks grew red at her words. “Besides, it may be the only way we can survive.”

Gavroche, having disappeared until that moment, popped his head out from under the table. “She’s right, y’know.”

“I’m in, too,” Marius spoke up. “Even if it means we have to fight. I stand for the ABC.”

“As do I.” Courfeyrac grinned. 

“And I,” Joly and Bossuet said in unison.

One by one, everyone in the room pledged their loyalty to the ABC. Enjolras smiled and looked over his friends. 

“Let's get started.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, quite a bit happens in this chapter. FIRST MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Prepare yourselves. It'll be the only one for awhile, thank God, but it's an emotional one. I cried. Feel free to.
> 
> Also, this is where it gets into the whole penetration thing. So, like official sex. Have fun with that.
> 
> Thanks again for reading and please, I'm always looking for feedback!

Everyday fell into constant routine; they had created a solid lookout schedule, food rations, and were caring for Bossuet’s dislocated shoulder. Everyone had made their own beds in the Musain; most slept on the floor of the café where they had the first night. Courfeyrac and Combeferre would alternate sleeping on Enjolras’s floor and couch, and Grantaire slept with Enjolras in his bed every night. 

Every morning when he awoke, Grantaire’s first conscious thought was, “ _It was a dream_.”

Of course, it wasn’t, and the cynic found his godly boyfriend curled around him like he was using Taire as a body pillow.

They didn’t “do the thing,” as Combeferre put it. Sex wasn’t an option for them because 1) there was always a risk of zombie attacks and they didn’t need to be in that vulnerable state if it did and 2) because there were two of their best friends in the room next to theirs, and all of their friends below them. Definitely not the best place.

The days were pretty uneventful. They had pushed the tables of the café (except for one that they lounged at) together to make a little HQ. Combeferre was the one who used it the most as he studied the disease. They had two closets, which had both been used for storing food when the world was still running. Now, one was where they stored their food, and the other was where they stored any weapons they came across. They had a mixture of guns, blades, baseball bats, nails, even small things like rulers and pencils. Anything that could potentially take down the undead.

Days were boring, and most of the time was spent trying to keep everyone from dying of depression. Courfeyrac, Cosette, Jehan, and Enjolras did a fair job with that, and Grantaire—the least likely of people to make people _not_ depressed, as he had suffered from the mental disease for years—even joined in sometimes. Either way, Enjolras was usually holding Taire’s hand, or pulling him into a corner to make out when there was a dull period. It surprised R how passionate Enj could be, but he never did anything beyond hand-holding in front of their friends. It was always closets or corners or the staircase or when they were alone in bed. It was almost as if Enjolras _needed_ Grantaire, and was having trouble functioning if they weren’t touching in some way.

_Damn_ , Grantaire constantly thought, _that could be a disadvantage later if we get caught in a fight_.

Courfeyrac was always bugging for details. It was very easy to tell that he was living his romantic life through ExR (the clever nickname Courfeyrac had come up with for their relationship). 

“So… I didn’t hear any moaning last night,” Courf commented particularly loudly as Taire got some coffee in the morning. He’d been unconsciously trying to put down the bottle since he and Enjolras had gotten together. It was a way to ensure Grantaire that their relationship was real.

“You’re right, I didn’t either. The zombies must be becoming quieter.”

“C’mon, R, when are you guys gonna do the sex?” 

“Sometime when we don’t have to worry about zombie attacks and eavesdropping men,” Enjolras replied sharply, placing his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. Taire immediately relaxed a little when Enj was touching him again; it gave him more reassurance.

“But that might never happen!” Courfeyrac whined.

“You’re right. It might not.” Enjolras leaned on Grantaire some more, wrapping his arms around the painter’s neck and putting his head on R’s shoulder. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, but that’s reality, unfortunately.”

The fluffy-haired man groaned.

“What about you, Courf?” Taire took a sip of his coffee. “You seem kind of hungry for romance. Why don’t you get involved with someone?” 

“Well, my options are limited, now, aren’t they? Anyway, my preferred is too busy reading about zombies and moths to even think about me.”

Grantaire and Enjolras turned to stare at Combeferre at the same time. It was true what Courfeyrac had said: the bookworm was sitting at the HQ with an open book about moths and his glasses sliding down his nose.

“Maybe you need to approach him, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras suggested. 

“Are you kidding? I can’t ruin a perfectly platonic broship. It’d be like Feuilly and Bahorel fucking each other.”

“Actually, I’ve always fantasized about riding your Polish dick.”

Bahorel and Feuilly joined Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and the standing Enjolras at the tiny lounging table in the corner. Bahorel was chuckling at his own comment.

“Sorry, Bahorel,” Feuilly grinned, with a hint of pain to his smile, “I wouldn’t want to ruin a ‘perfectly platonic broship.’” He laughed. “Besides, we’ve already been down that road. And, if I remember correctly, _you_ fucked _me._ ” 

“That’s right. Eh, I don’t have the time right now to ride your Polish dick, anyway, with the apocalypse and everything. Maybe later, though.”

“Call me, big boy.”

Éponine made a face, sitting down next to Feuilly. “You two have fucked?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. What’s wrong with it? We were both romantically unattached, so it’s not like we were cheating on someone. Best friends became fuck buddies.” 

“It’s been awhile,” Bahorel commented. “You know, Feuilly, Enjolras has a bed upstairs that he’s currently not using…” 

“ _NO!_ ” four voices commanded in perfect unison. It was such a loud shout, that it woke Cosette and Marius on the opposite side of the room. Even Combeferre glanced over at them.

The four people who’d spoken all looked angry, some in similar ways, some in different ways. Enjolras and Grantaire were both frowning, and when questioned, Enj spoke for the both of them. “ _We_ haven’t even used it yet.”

It was the other two voices that had startled everyone. It was expected of Enjolras, maybe even Grantaire, but not of Feuilly and Éponine. Feuilly was blushing furiously, as if he hadn’t intended to make an outburst, but Éponine was full-on scowling.

“What?” Bahorel asked.

“I don’t want to hear your loud-ass grunts and moans as you two fuck!” Éponine glared at Bahorel. “It’s too confined for anyone to be fucking anyone.” 

Feuilly didn’t offer an explanation, he just kind of sank into a depressed state.

“Dramatic,” Courfeyrac said, which got a laugh from a few. “And we were having such a nice conversation.”

“See, this is one reason why I don’t have any desire to have sex,” Jehan murmured, smiling brightly. “It creates unnecessary drama and tension.”

“You’re missing out, bro,” Bahorel laughed. 

“Yes, well, from my experience, sex is very… vocal.”

“I wanna be vocal!” Gavroche exclaimed, climbing out from under the table. “Enjolras says you should always be vocal.”

Courfeyrac muttered, “That explains a lot.”

“It’s not the same kind of vocal,” Éponine told her younger brother. “Trust me, Gav, if I _ever_ hear you being vocal in this meaning of the word, I will kick your ass, cause I don’t need or _want_ to hear that.”  
   
“Oh. _That_ kind of vocal. The kind of vocal that Grantaire and Enjolras were the other night.”

Both Enj and Taire’s faces went scarlet, although R looked more embarrassed and Enjy looked more like he was going to murder the kid. The café erupted with laughter, so loud that nobody heard the light groaning that came from behind the window.

Gavroche started walking around. “I’m an entertainer, I am. Wanna hear a joke? Why is Bahorel named Bahorel? Because he’s a _whore_.”

Even Bahorel laughed—mostly just because it was true. The kid was on fire, and he stood up next to the barricaded window and started to sing.

“ _And little people know… When little people fight… We may look easy pickings but we got some bite! So never kick a dog… Because it's just a pup! And we’ll fight like twenty armies, and we won’t give up_!”

The window behind him broke and two zombies piled through. The first jumped onto Gavroche, and tore into his neck without haste. Blood splattered everywhere; on the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling. It happened so quickly, none of Les Amis was expecting it. It took about a half-second for Enjolras’s instincts to kick in, because there was now two zombies in their protected base, and the window was wide open. He grabbed his revolver from the inside of his jacket and shot the one on Gavroche in an instant; it slumped over, and both of them fell down. The other started to attack Marius, but Éponine bashed its head in with a frying pan. 

“GAVROCHE!” Courfeyrac screamed, surging forward to take the twelve-year old in his arms. He kicked the unmoving zombie aside and cradled Gavroche’s head.

“ _So you better… run for cover…_ ” Gav whispered through the blood and flesh that muddled his speech. The little bit of light left in his blue eyes was dimming quickly. “ _When the pup… grows…_ ”

Courfeyrac let out a sob as the boy’s eyes went still, and buried his head into Gavroche’s blood-covered torso. “He’s so young… he’s so small,” he was incoherently muttering into Gav’s jacket.

“There’s more men! _There’s more men, Enjolras_!”

Feuilly was the first to the window, only to realize that there was more of the zombies _sprinting_ toward the Musain. There was no time to even try and repair the barricade. Enjolras began shouting orders at everyone—it was clear what they had to do.

“Get the weapons and food and _get out of here_!” Enj grabbed the tail of Grantaire’s shirt and kissed him passionately for about two seconds. “ _Run! RUN_!”

Revolver in hand, Enjolras kicked through the door on the opposite side of the café, and sprinted like hell. 

“GO!” Grantaire shouted at his friends. “You heard him! _GET OUT OF HERE!_ ”

Jehan was the next to follow Enjolras, and then Valjean, with Cosette and Marius directly behind him. Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet shot out, Joly and Bossuet holding hands, of course. 

“Courfeyrac, you have to go!” Combeferre was screaming at him. “GET UP AND RUN, GODDAMMIT! CARRY HIM!”

Blubbery and sobbing, Courfeyrac gathered Gavroche’s corpse in his arms and ran out of the Musain after Les Amis. Éponine, whose knees had given way after Gavroche died and was crying, stood up slowly and turned toward the window, gripping her gun. With tears streaming down her face, she shot at the undead, and it was clear what she was trying to do. Feuilly barreled into her, threw her over his shoulder, and forcefully carried her out of the Musain, with her kicking and screaming and punching him. Grantaire didn’t give him enough credit.

Combeferre was piling the food and weapons into a large duffel bag. Taire shouted at him, “Ferre, you have to go! You _have to go_!” 

“No! I have to bring this stuff to them! They won’t survive without it!”

Grantaire didn’t bother trying to convince him anymore. Instead, he came up beside him and helped. They worked well as a team, and were able to fill the bag very quickly.

“Let me carry it,” R offered.

“No. You’re going to struggle running anyway.” Combeferre latched the duffel to his back and snatched a musket from the cabinet, one of the last in there that wouldn’t fit in the bag. He tossed a rifle to Grantaire. “They’re already so close, and they’re fast fuckers. We need all the help we can get, and I’ve got stronger legs than you. No offense.”

“None taken.” Taire cocked the gun. “Let’s kick some undead ass, then.”

The two took off sprinting in the direction the rest of Les Amis went. They could easily hear the groaning and grunting of the zombies behind them. Their friends were so far ahead, and the unlikely partners couldn’t see them.

“Any chance we’ll take the same path as them?” Grantaire shouted, struggling to breath. Running was _hard_.

“Depends.”

They continued to run in silence. Taire was starting to get stitches in his side, and he knew he couldn’t continue much longer. But Combeferre was right; the zombies were faster than them, and were approaching rapidly. Finally, after suffering through a ton of pain and falling behind Ferre, R stopped and openly shot at the herd of zombies. Combeferre realized what he was doing and turned to do the same. He looked very hesitant, because they were shooting at people they knew. But Grantaire had no mercy. 

The herd was too big for them to take down on their own, but Taire didn’t think he could run anymore. 

“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” Combeferre yelled at him.

“It seems like a great possibility, yeah.”

Ferre laughed hard. “I think that’s the most optimistic I’ve ever heard you, Grantaire! Perhaps we won’t die today, if this is even making a cynic go soft.”

“I’d love to see that outcome.”

“I wonder what death is like,” Combeferre speculated. 

“Probably painful.”

“Probably.”

“Dark?”

“Maybe. I’ve always thought of it as being dark and then becoming really really bright.”

“At least we’ll get to see Gavroche again, right?”

“I hope he’s happy.” 

“Me too. Ready to join him?”

“Not today, Taire.”

Combeferre grabbed Grantaire’s wrist and pulled him away from the zombies. He threw Taire in the passenger side of a very nice Mercedes-Benz close to them and jumped in the driver’s seat. Grantaire had no idea how Ferre knew how to hot-wire a car, but he did it in no time flat and winked at R. “Hold on.”

_Oh my god we’re going to die_ , was Grantaire’s first thought.

Combeferre drove fast and avoided the empty cars easily. They outdrove the herd quickly, and only passed a few wanderers. Soon enough, they came up on the ABC. They were all panting and tired, but most were still running. Combeferre swung around so he skidded to a stop right in front of Enjolras. Grantaire opened the door and shouted, “Now _that_ was badass driving!”

The first emotion that registered on Enjolras’s face was relief. And then fear. And then determination.

“We’re too open right now,” Bossuet commented. “We need to find shelter.”

Enjolras held up his revolver and shot two feet to Grantaire’s left, the bullet barreling into a zombie’s forehead. “Yeah. We’re not safe.”

Valjean blinked. “I know these parts.” He was staring at the house near them. “This is where a good friend of mine lives.”

“Do you think he—or his corpse—would mind if we crashed?” Combeferre asked.

Valjean pulled a handgun out. “Let’s find out.”

Combeferre parked the hot-wired Mercedes in the driveway as the rest of Les Amis followed up behind. They were all back there, but some were slower than others. Especially those that left the Musain later.

“It’s a big house,” Grantaire commented. It was Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Valjean, Marius, Cosette, Enjolras, Combeferre, and himself who were left to search the place. They all had weapons, and Ferre still wore the duffel on his back. 

It _was_ a big house. A mansion, almost. With ten of them, they were able to search the house in five minutes. Marius found and killed the corpse of the man who’d been living there: Valjean’s friend. Bahorel had carried the man out to the front porch and laid him—or _it_ —by the door when he saw Courfeyrac, Éponine, and Feuilly come running up. He called them over.

They were a mess; Courfeyrac was still sobbing over Gavroche’s corpse in his arms, and ‘Ponine was firing curses and screams at Feuilly. When he set her down on the couch in the living room, she slapped him so hard that Grantaire swore he heard Feuilly’s bones crack. 

Taire shouted, “Courfeyrac, get away from Gavroche!”

His friend didn’t follow his command, of course, but stayed by the boy.

“He’s going to turn, Courf! You’ve got to let him go. He’s going to kill you!”

Combeferre came behind Courfeyrac and rubbed the man’s shoulders. He leaned down and whispered, “You’ve got to let him go, baby. You’ve got to let him go.”

Listening to Ferre’s soothing words, Courf slowly released Gavroche’s body. 

“We’ve got to shoot him,” Enjolras said, his voice heavy.

“I know,” Courfeyrac murmured.

“He’s in a better place, Courf,” Jehan told him. “He’s safe and happy. But we can’t let that disease take his body.”

Courfeyrac nodded and backed away some more. Éponine even stopped firing curses at Feuilly to turn around to finally look at her younger brother. Seeing his dead body made her tear up some more.

“Shoot him, then.”

Bahorel drew a gun, but Enjolras put his hand up. “Wait, Bahorel.”

He waited.

“What if…? Marius, you asked the other day how long it took for the disease to fully take over the person’s body.”

“We can’t do that to Gavroche,” Marius disproved, “it’s using him.”

“It’s using our resources,” the leader countered. “I don’t want to see little Gavroche as one of those fucking zombies as much as you do, but… it would certainly give us some information.”

“Enj is right,” Éponine murmured. “And I can guarantee that’s what Gav would’ve wanted; anything to help out the fuckers of the ABC.”

Marius looked baffled that ‘ _Ponine_ , of all people, was agreeing with Enjolras. “How do you suggest we go about that? Without him hurting or killing or turning any of us?” 

“The solution is simple,” Bahorel said. “Someone gets locked in a closet with the little fucker and times how long it takes. We take shifts if the person gets tired or something.” 

Combeferre nodded in agreement. “I just feel bad for the person who has to see him like that, and then have to _shoot_ him.”

“Eh, I’ll do it. It’s not like I haven’t seen enough shit in my life.”

“Just shout when you need a break,” Grantaire told him as Bahorel dragged Gav’s corpse into a closet down the hall.

“Thanks to Valjean, we have a place to crash for a few days,” Enjolras said once the muscular man was gone. “But we’ll need to block the windows.”

“Dammit, we just got finished with the ones at the Musain,” Bossuet grumbled.

“Yeah, shut up, Bossuet, you don’t have to help because of you shoulder,” Taire commented. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Valjean offered. “You all should rest. You’ve well deserved it.”

Enjolras nodded and the group dispersed. Éponine shot one more curse at Feuilly before storming off somewhere; Joly helped Bossuet to a bedroom on the bottom floor; Marius and Cosette raided the kitchen for any supplies, and then proceeded to organize the food they had brought; Jehan sat criss-crossed on the floor and began writing in a notebook; Courfeyrac slumped back onto the couch and curled up in a ball, and Combeferre saw it fit to kneel on the floor next to him and comfort him; Feuilly sat in one of the dining room chairs and rested his eyes.

Grantaire looked back at Enjolras and reached for his hand. The leader smiled at his boyfriend’s gesture and gladly accepted it. He wasn’t expecting Grantaire to tug on him and pull him up the stairs.

The cynic led Enj into a bathroom on the second floor of the mansion. As soon as the door shut, they embraced each other tightly. Enjolras buried his face into Taire’s neck.

“You stayed behind,” Enjy finally whispered after a solid two minutes of silence. “I ran first, but you stayed behind until everyone had gone. You risked your life for our friends, to make sure they all got out of there safely and before you.”

“Yeah, pretty stupid of me, huh?”   
“I wish I had that kind of courage.”

Taire wrinkled his nose. “Are you kidding me? You’ve got more courage and determination than—”

“It took a lot of courage and a lot of love. You knew Courfeyrac and Éponine would have trouble getting out of there, so you stayed behind to be completely sure. You… You have more determination than I ever could have, and you staying behind saved our asses and my two best friends. And, most importantly, you made sure my boyfriend got out safety.”

“That… is me, right?"

“Yes, goddammit. It’s you.”

Grantaire blushed. “You can mostly thank Combeferre for that. My safety wasn’t really the first thing on my mind, or by any means my first priority.”

“Shut up, Grantaire. Just shut up and kiss me.”

When R didn’t immediately oblige, Enjolras took action and pulled Taire to him and forced his lips upon the painter’s. Grantaire didn’t push him away or disagree, but instead leaned into the kiss. 

“You’re bleeding,” Enj commented, pulling his hand back from caressing Taire’s stomach and finding it red. “Why’re you bleeding?” 

Grantaire didn’t say anything.

“No.”

“Enjolras—”

“ _No_. I _will not_ have you—”

“ _Enjolras_ , I’m not bitten.”

“Then why—what—?”

Taire turned slightly and lifted up the hem of his shirt lightly. Across his stomach was one long, fresh cut. It ran across his bony abdomen in a horizontal fashion, and by the way it looked, it could easily be mistaken for an accident.

Enjolras knew better.

“When did you do this?” he asked in a low voice, staring dead into Grantaire’s eyes. His boyfriend was unable to look him back, but couldn’t look at the cut, either, so he stared directly at the tiled floor. “The only time you were out of my sight was when you were with Combeferre, and surely he wouldn’t have let you—”

Grantaire’s long, heavy sigh made Enj shut his mouth instantly. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to cut while you’re in someone else’s presence without them noticing. I’ve become very talented at it.”

“That’s not something good to be talented at.”   
“You didn’t see what I saw, staying behind,” Taire murmured. “Maybe it’s just because I’m weaker than you, but… it made me realize some things. And realizing those things made me think and when I think that hard about stuff like that I have the urge to—”

Enjolras shushed him. “What did you think about? What did you _see_?” 

“Éponine. She tried to kill herself. That’s why she was shouting at Feuilly, because he _saved_ her. The problem is, I was _right there_. I _watched_ her walk out. But I didn’t do anything, because I’m such a fucked up, depressed bag of dicks and suicide is a natural thing for me. I’ve attempted it enough times to know. _I let her go_. If Feuilly hadn’t been there, she would have gone through with it. And I would’ve had to watch two people I love die.”

“That’s not your fault, Grantaire—”

“I’m a dickbag! I didn’t have the instinct to save her! Not to mention the fact that I’ve been nothing but a burden on you and the rest of the ABC since the apocalypse started—hell, I’ve _always_ been a burden to you guys! I’m not courageous, or determined, or strong, I’m a fucking—”

“SHUT UP!” 

Enjolras’s scream was so loud that it rattled the door. He grabbed Grantaire’s shoulders and kissed him fiercely. He pushed Taire against the wall and held the cynic’s hands above his head.

“You _will not_ talk about my boyfriend like that,” Enj growled. “Do you understand me?”

Grantaire was so shocked in Enjolras’s actions that he didn’t think he could physically respond. That wasn’t sufficing Enj’s question, though, and he was _pissed._

“ _Do you understand me_?” 

“Yes… yes sir.” 

“Good.” Enjolras pushed his hips against Grantaire roughly and Taire yelped, not expecting the action or to feel Enj’s boner hard against him. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Enjolras told him. “Because I love you and for no other fucking reason. This is _real_ , Grantaire. I love you, I’m your boyfriend, and we’re going to fuck. _Now_.”

All Taire could do was nod once, because Enj’s lips were already pressed against his again. Everything around him was Enjolras; he was feeling Enjolras, tasting Enjolras, smelling Enjolras, _suffocating with Enjolras_. And he absolutely fucking loved it.

Suddenly Enj’s soft lips were gone, and his shirt was being lifted over his head. Enjolras left a trail of white-hot kisses going down from Taire’s neck and he stopped, lingering over the scar on his stomach. 

“You _will not_ abuse the love of my life anymore.”

“The—The love of your life?”

Apollo nodded. “Yes. You are the love of my life. And you _will not_ abuse yourself anymore.”

“I won’t.”

“Do I have your word?”

“Yes.”

Enjolras’s hand was no longer resting on his waist, but feeling Taire’s erection through his jeans. R moaned softly at his lover’s touch.

“Wait,” he said as Enj moved to unbutton his jeans. “Come here.”

Reluctantly, Enjolras stood up so he was once again eye-level with Grantaire. 

“It’s my turn,” the painter said with a mischievous grin before pushing Apollo into the shower. “You’re dirty from fighting. Maybe I can give you a cleanse.”

“That was terrible.”

“Eh. Foreplay wasn’t ever my best.” 

Enjolras allowed Grantaire to slide his favorite red jacket off of him, followed by his shirt. Taire bit into his lover’s neck gently, and it was Enj’s turn to moan. _Oh fuck_ , Grantaire thought. _That is the most heavenly sound I’ve ever heard_.

Grantaire slowly moved from Enj’s neck to his chest, stopping for a moment to tease his nipples before continuing down his torso. When he got to the start of Enjolras’s jeans, he stopped and glanced up. Enjolras was staring down at him, and upon meeting Grantaire’s eyes he smiled and raised his eyebrows.

R stammered, “Do I… Do you permit it?”

The sound that came out of his lover’s mouth was laughter. “Of course I do, Grantaire. You don’t have to ask.” 

Not bothering with buttons or zippers, he slid Enjolras’s jeans down to his ankles, followed by his red and black underwear. The sight made Grantaire inhale deeply, but he didn’t stop or hesitate. He gripped Enjolras’s dick and then wrapped his lips around it.

A moaning Enjolras was one of Taire’s favorite Enjolras’s. And, _oh fuck_ , he tasted so goddamn good. Grantaire knew it wasn’t exactly a great blowjob; he wasn’t as good with his mouth as he was with his hands. But he tried his fucking hardest because it was _Enjolras_.

“Oh, god,” Enj moaned. He ran a hand through R’s curls and then gripped his hair, pushing gently and moving with Grantaire’s head.

The water came on and sprayed both of them. Taire backed away from Enj before Apollo pulled him up to kiss him. 

“Showering?” R asked smugly, with a twinge of sadness. 

“Oh, I’m not done with you yet, tiger. Just thought the running water would cover up some… noises.” 

He slammed Grantaire into the shower wall and ran his hands down the sides of Taire’s chest. The painter wrapped his legs around his lover’s waist, and Enjolras cupped R’s ass. 

“This is not happening,” Taire said unbelievingly.

“But it is, love.” Enj reached down and careful inserted one finger into Grantaire’s ass. He moaned, and Enjolras grinned. “I don’t have any lube. Are you sure—”

“For fuck’s sake, _yes, Enjolras_.”

A second finger drove into Taire. Every single one of his muscles tensed at once in a way he’d never experienced. “Oh my _god_ , Enjolras, I want you _now_!”   
The leader smiled wider. “Just one more, baby. I promise.”

All he got in response was a “ _Mmmm_!” as he added a finger.

Enjy kissed Taire’s neck. “Are you read—”

“ _Enjolras-I-need-you-inside-me-now_!” Grantaire moaned.

With a wink, Enjolras drew his fingers out of Taire and then positioned himself correctly. And, with the shower running to (hopefully) muffle the noise that was surely happen, he eased his cock into Grantaire.

All thoughts cleared from R’s mind except _Enjolras_ and _holy frick that hurts_. It was the sort of pain that just sits in the back of your head, never really getting the chance to be felt because all you want is right in front of you and there’s really nothing else to think about. Just as Enjolras managed to get his dick all the way in, he whispered, “Breathe, Grantaire.”

Taire didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m tough,” Grantaire stated with a smug smile. “Move.”

“Are you sure—?”

“ _Move_.”

Enjolras did as he was commanded to do, and Taire let out a loud moan. It hurt but it _felt so fucking good_. It registered in his brain at that moment: _Enjolras was inside of him_.

And then the pain was gone, and it was all sensation.

“ _Oh, Enjolras_ ,”

His lover began to move faster, and he savored it. It was possibly the best moment of the sad, pathetic thing he called a life. 

_Enjolras_ made his life happy and worth it. 

Oh god, he couldn’t get that glorious name out of his head. _Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras._

He found himself moaning the name aloud, not just in his head.

“ _Fuck_ , Grantaire,” Enjolras murmured between heavy breaths. 

As his lover said his name, he couldn’t hold back anymore. He came on his stomach, and Enjolras followed not long after inside of Grantaire. They both collapsed on the floor of the shower, with Taire on top of Enj.

“Shit,” R muttered, his head on Enj’s chest. “It’s only morning, and I’m already so fucking tired.”

“You’ve done running and fucking,” Enjolras replied. “Both take a lot of energy.”

“ _You_ take a lot of energy.”

“Rest, Grantaire.”

And so he did.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some really cute, funny scenes in here, and some really emotional ones as well. You'll be hearing a lot from Feuilly, Éponine, and Bahorel, and some secrets--some surprising and some not--will be revealed.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I look forward to feedback, maybe?

Feuilly didn’t bother knocking on the door to the screened porch; it had taken him twenty minutes to find Éponine in the huge house, and at the cost of hearing very distinct moans coming from the upstairs bathroom.

“Hey.”

Éponine jumped up from the chair she was sitting in and drew a knife on Feuilly.

“Aw, c’mon, ‘Ponine! You can’t tell me you aren’t glad I stopped you.” 

She didn’t answer, just continued to glare at him.

“Éponine, do you really want to know the reasons I stopped you from running into that herd?”

She offered no response.

“Firstly, Gavroche wouldn’t have wanted you to give up that easily. He would’ve wanted you to fight and take care of the motherfuckers of the ABC. Secondly, I didn’t want to watch you kill yourself. I didn’t want you to and I couldn’t let you.”

“Right. Because I’m so important to the ABC. It would’ve made absolutely no difference if I committed suicide or not. Just one less toy for you guys to drag along.”

“You’re _not_ a toy, Éponine—”

“Damn right I’m not.” 

“—and _I_ would care if you committed suicide. Hell, you’re one of the only reasons I’m still around. You’re the reason I stayed back as long as I did, instead of running with Bahorel. I don’t want you to die.”

“Sure. _That’s_ why you didn’t run off with your boyfriend.” 

“Bahorel is not my boyfriend. He’s my _best_ friend.”

“That you’ve fucked.”

“So? That was when maybe I had some remote feelings for him. Feelings like that can go away, just like new feelings can arise.”

“Bullshit.”

“Éponine—”

“ _Bull. Shit._ ”

“Éponine, will you just listen to me? For Christ’s sake, you’re almost as oblivious as Marius!” 

She looked up at him, her facial expression softening. “You’re right. Marius is oblivious.” 

When she said that, Feuilly wanted to curl in a ball and cry. Not for her sake, but for his own. He had just been about to admit his biggest secret to her, and then she went and told him that she _did_ have a thing for Marius. Of course, Feuilly had guessed this. But as she said that and confirmed his thoughts, he looked down.

“Right. You should… say something to him. He may just need a little push in the right direction.”

“And come between him and Cosette? Hell no.” She sighed. “There’s too much drama already. Besides, I really just want him to be happy. If he’s happy with Cosette, that’s… that’s alright with me. I’ll just… I love him, but… I’ll always be on my own.”

He was torn between wanting to slap her or to reach out to her and say, “No, ‘Ponine, you won’t be. I’ll be with you.” 

He didn’t, though. Instead he just nodded and said, “I’m sorry. About Marius and about pulling you from the herd. I should’ve just left you.” 

The expression on her face ripped his heart apart, but it didn’t matter. The words had already left his mouth, and he couldn’t undo time. He held back his tears until he got inside, away from her, and locked himself in a closet, where he proceeded to cry for a half hour.

Thankfully, no one walked in.

# ~

Bahorel was getting bored, and staring at the dead kid wasn’t helping.

Gavroche had been important to him, too, just as he was to the rest of the ABC. Bahorel just wasn’t the kind of person to cry about it. Sure, he didn’t particularly _want_ to shoot the adorable little boy, but he wasn’t much for letting one of the others do it. Especially when he was came off as a tough guy.

He casually wondered if Feuilly would be up for a game of poker after the business with Gavroche was taken care of. He’d appreciate the distraction from having to put down the kid.

There was that, too. Feuilly hadn’t been acting right since days before the apocalypse even began, and he started acting even stranger when the dead started rising. The Polish redhead was oddly distant and kept to himself more. He used to be more sarcastic and joking, but lately he had been responding differently. 

“What do you think, Gavroche?” Bahorel asked the corpse. “Think Feuilly’s okay? The only time I’ve ever seen him like this was… oh.”

It clicked in his brain. Apparently, it clicked in Gavroche’s too, because the corpse blinked.

“Oh shit,” Bahorel muttered, cocking the gun. He raised it at the zombie-Gav, but didn’t shoot. He watched his undead friend cautiously. It didn’t do much, just blink a few times and maybe twitched its fingers. After a minute or two of doing this, the thing that was Gavroche unsteadily rose to its feet, and stared straight at Bahorel, but didn’t charge.

Then, he sniffed, and groaned, smelling the sweet smell of Bahorel’s blood pulsing through his veins and the flesh on his bones. It must’ve smelled good, because he strained his neck to get closer to it.

He blinked a few times over his glazed blue eyes before charging at Bahorel. It didn’t take another conscious thought for Bahorel to shoot.

Gavroche’s zombie dropped dead, a bullet lodged into its head.

Bahorel leaned in close and checked to make sure the zombie was down completely. When he felt sure that it was, he scooped Gavroche in his arms and kicked open the closet door to find Courfeyrac and Combeferre on the couch, talking lightly. Courf had tears streaming down his face, and when he looked up to see Bahorel, he choked back a sob.

“One hour since the time of death,” he announced. “They’re very incoherent when they first turn, but as soon as they find enough sense to take a sniff, they’ll charge.”

“You okay, Bahorel?” Combeferre asked.

“Fine. The job is done, that’s what matters.” Bahorel laid Gavroche on the floor and covered his body with a blanket that was on a chair close by. He then sat down in said chair.

Valjean stopped fixing a window for a moment and turned to them. “Have you boys considered burning the bodies? To be sure they don’t rise back up?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Ferre said. 

“We should wait for Enjolras’s opinion,” Bahorel suggested. “Where is that fucker anyway?”

Through Courfeyrac’s tears, he snorted. “It’s funny that you phrased it that way.”

“Why?”

Combeferre smiled. “Well, he and Grantaire went into the upstairs bathroom awhile ago, and we’re both pretty sure we heard moaning.”

“Damn, Taire’s getting laid? Finally?”

Ferre frowned. “What do you mean, _finally_?”

Valjean silently excused himself from the conversation. Bahorel guessed it was too much for the old, Catholic man to take.

“Dude.” Courfeyrac was slowly starting to get over Gav’s death. Or maybe he was just distracted. “Grantaire’s a virgin—well, not anymore, I hope.” 

Combeferre bit his lip. “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed. You and him have such a close relationship…”

“Oh my god, Combeferre, you _did not_ think we had sex, did you?”

Ferre didn’t respond.

“Dork.”

“Are you a virgin, then?”

“Oooh, are we playing the virgin game?” Cosette asked, coming into the room and dragging Marius behind her.

“What’s that?” Bahorel asked.

“A group go around asking if you’re a virgin or not. It’s pretty much just truth or dare without the dare and all the truths are ‘Virgin?’”

“Well, we weren’t, but it looks like it now.” Courfeyrac sighed. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. But I didn’t lose it to _Taire_. Nah, I lost it when I was fifteen to a very beautiful girl that I don’t remember the name of.”

Bahorel snorted. “Good job, Courf.”

“We all know _you’re_ not a virgin, Ba- _whore_ -el.”

“That would be correct. Feuilly was my first, and I was his. Proud of that, too. It’s awesome to lose it to your best friend, just FYI. Where he, anyway?”

Combeferre responded, “No idea. He was looking for Éponine last I saw him.” 

“What about you, Cosette?” Courfeyrac asked, diverting the subject. “Virgin or no?”

“Not with me anymore, actually. A more recent development, but I plan on staying with this boyfriend for awhile.”

“Well, that means that Pontmercy’s not; he lost it to his girlfriend,” Bahorel said.

“Actually, I didn’t.”

Everyone looked at Marius.

“I did have a life before I joined the ABC,” he inquired. “And I’m totally _not_ a puppy.”

“Now that we’ve had that very surprising news—”

“ _Courfeyrac_ —”

“Combeferre? Is your ‘soul still intact?’”

Ferre stared at his feet and crossed his ankles.

“Oh my god,” Courfeyrac exclaimed.

“It’s really not that hard to believe,” Bahorel commented. “He really only cares about books and school and shit.”

“I just… haven’t gotten around to it,” Combeferre muttered.

“Well, you sure have a good shot of losing it during the fucking apocalypse. Why don’t you just go find the love of your life? It’s gotta be pretty easy in these conditions.”

“Shut up, Bahorel.”

Feuilly came into the room through one of the bedrooms. Cosette’s face went soft when she saw him; she jumped up and trotted to him.

“Are you alright?” she asked him, stroking his face gently, while keeping her distance. No need to get Marius upset.

“Fine,” Feuilly very-obviously lied. 

“Dude, your face is redder than your hair,” Courfeyrac told him.

Bahorel very slowly got up and went over to his best friend. He lowered his voice so only Feuilly (and maybe Cosette) could hear him. “Get your heart broken?”

Feuilly punched Bahorel in the gut and very nearly broke his hand. 

“Who is he?”

“ _She’s_ not relevant anymore,” he hissed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over, I don’t care anymore.”

Bahorel rolled his eyes as Feuilly walked away. He muttered, “Damn bisexuals.”

“No, Bahorel.” Feuilly turned to his best friend. “I’m pansexual, actually. And anyway, what is it your concern to comment on my sexual orientation? Have you told them about your _hobby_ yet?”

“We agreed not to talk about that.” 

“Well we’re gonna talk about it if you decide to hate on my sexual orientation. Got it?”

He stormed off into the kitchen and left Bahorel standing in awe. Feuilly hardly ever lost his temper like that, especially if he knew Bahorel was joking. 

“Uh, if you don’t mind me asking,” Courfeyrac butted in, “what’s this hobby of yours?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bahorel snapped. 

“Well,” Combeferre said uncomfortably. “I’m going to go check on Grantaire and Enjolras and make sure they haven’t drowned each other in the shower. Because with the water _still_ running, I would consider it.”

# ~

The knock on the door wasn’t enough to wake Enjolras, but it was definitely loud enough to wake Grantaire. He blinked a few times, and then registered where he was. Enjolras was so warm and comfortable, it was like sleeping on a electric blanket. Except softer, and more human.

Combeferre shouted from behind the door. “Are you guys dead, because the water’s been running for an awfully long time.”

Taire was vaguely aware of the stream of water pouring on his legs. 

At Combeferre’s voice, Enjolras awoke just enough to pull Grantaire closer and mutter, “Go away, Ferre.” 

“You’re wasting water, Enjo—”

“GODDAMMIT, FERRE, I’M TRYING TO SLEEP WITH MY BOYFRIEND. GO. AWAY.”

R smiled and whispered, “That’s my boy.”

They sat there—cuddled against each other on the shower floor—for a few minutes before Enjolras murmured, “Grantaire?”

“Yes, my Apollo?”

“I can’t go back to sleep.” 

“Neither can I.”

“I hate Combeferre so much right now.”

Grantaire looked up at his lover. “Should we go back downstairs?”

“Probably.”

“Shower first?”

“Definitely.”

# ~

After they’d bathed each other—which wasn’t erotic at all—they dressed and went back downstairs. The majority of the ABC (excluding Feuilly, Éponine, and Bossuet) were in the living room. Valjean was putting the finishing touches on the barricaded windows, and the rest were lounging on the couches.

“The only one who hasn’t spilled is Joly,” Courfeyrac was saying when they could hear the voices. “What’s the 411, Joly? Have you and Bossuet done the dance with no pants?” 

“First of all, I cannot believe you just called it that. Secondly, Bossuet is the only one I will willingly touch and have sex with.”

“Even the hypochondriac has had sex!” Courf exclaimed, which made Joly blushed. 

“Thirdly,” Joly continued, “you’re ignoring our friends who’ve just reappeared after being missing for more than an hour.” 

Everyone turned to follow Joly’s gaze, which was staring directly at Grantaire and Enjolras. Courfeyrac wolf-whistled.

“So, how was the first time, Grantaire?” Jehan asked seriously.

“Yes, we’ve heard you’re both a couple of virgins,” Bahorel chuckled at their surprised and upset expressions. “Well, _were_.” 

“Who topped?” Courfeyrac asked.

“None of your fucking business,” Grantaire snapped. Enjolras grabbed his hand to calm him down.

“Bahorel, any guesses?”

“Taire, probably.”

“Nah, I’m definitely going with Enjolras topping,” Courfeyrac said as the couple sat down; Enjolras on the couch and Grantaire at his feet, with Enjolras’s legs wrapped around his neck.

“Why do you say that?” Bahorel questioned.

“Enj has fingernail marks on his back. You can see them out of the top of his shirt.”

“Damn, I should’ve worn my jacket,” Enjolras cursed, rubbing his back.

Bahorel frowned. “It could’ve been a really good blowjob.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Yeah, right. Have you met Taire?”

“You do realize that we’re _right here_ , correct?” Grantaire growled.

Courf and Bahorel ignored him. “Dude, who’s more feminine of the two?”

“Being feminine doesn’t mean you bottomed. That’s kinda sexist, actually.”

He ignored Courfeyrac’s last comment. “It so does.” 

“Feuilly rode you, right? That means you fucked him, and—technically—bottomed. Would you consider yourself more feminine than Feuilly?”

Bahorel frowned and muttered, “Touché.”

“Match won. R bottomed, Enj topped.”

Everyone in the room looked to the couple in question, and you could see them taking sides in their mind. Grantaire finally sighed and murmured, “Yeah, fine. You’re right, Courfeyrac. Enj fucked me.” 

Courf shot up and raised his hands in the air. “ _MY BRAIN IS BETTER THAN EVERYBODY’S_!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce Courfeyrac to you,” Combeferre said. “the Queen of Allusions.” 

Courfeyrac pointed at him. “Damn straight.”

“Courf, nothing you do has ever been straight—” 

“We were just playing the virginity game,” Cosette told Enjolras and Taire, desperate to change the subject. “I assume the pair of you are accounted for?”

Everyone in the room laughed, even Valjean. It really wasn’t that funny.

“Who’s left?” Grantaire questioned, wrinkling his nose.

“Well… Bossuet and Feuilly both lost it to people in this room,” Courfeyrac informed them, “so only Éponine.” 

“Definitely not a virgin,” Marius said.

“How do you know?” Jehan said, not harshly like it would normally be said.

Marius blushed. “She told me about Montparnasse and her.”

“She likes you,” Joly told him abruptly.

Pontmercy frowned. “What?”

“She really does,” Bahorel agreed. “It’s okay, Marius, we all know you’re blind.” 

“Sorry, dude,” Grantaire shrugged as Marius looked to him and Enjolras for help. “I can’t disagree.”

“Nor can I,” Enj said.

Cosette rubbed his shoulders. “Even I knew that, sweetie. It’s okay, though. I love you just the way you are.” 

“Cliché,” Courf muttered.

“ _Oh my god_ , that explains so much,” the puppy exclaimed. He spent the next few minutes rambling on about how it gave reasons to most of her actions.

“Where’s Feuilly?” Grantaire cut in. 

Bahorel frowned. “He had a bitch fit. Ran off into the kitchen.”

Taire’s face suddenly became very serious. “Is there an outside door in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I just heard it open.”

Enjolras, listening to his boyfriend’s words carefully, shot up and sprinted to the kitchen. Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Bahorel were right on his tail, and the others speculated worriedly while Ferre, the only witness to the “bitch fit,” explained what had happened to them. 

When the four of them reached the kitchen, they found Feuilly standing in the doorway, an axe in his hand, a gun strapped to his back, and the black oil that spurts from a zombie’s veins covering his body. He dropped the axe on the floor, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his knees gave way. Just before he hit the floor, Bahorel caught him in his arms. 

Bahorel’s scream for Joly was heard by every zombie within two-hundred yards. Or it would’ve been, except all of them were dead.


	8. Chapter 8

Feuilly awoke with a terrible headache.

He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember all of the events of… whenever he’d been awake last, but it was all fuzzy. The last thing he could consciously remember was getting upset with Bahorel and threatening to tell his best friend’s lifelong secret.

“Good evening, sleeping beauty.”

As his vision became clear, Bahorel was the first thing he saw. He was thinking about how happy he was to see his best friend’s face, and how fucking hot it was. 

_No_ , Feuilly corrected himself. _You’re not allowed to think about how hot he is. Don’t even go there today._

“Evening?” Feuilly asked.

“Evening.”

“When did I… how did I… bed?” 

Bahorel smiled and held up a shot glass. “Want some? A few of the others went on a supply run to the local pharmacy and Grantaire smuggled some alcohol. Joly said you might need it when you woke, depending on how much pain you’re in.” 

“Give it here.” Feuilly took the glass and drank it, cringing as he did. “It’s strong.” 

“Good. Grantaire makes good drinks, then.”

“If Taire took a supply run, why didn’t you go with him? Sounds like something you’d be into.”

“Feuilly, I… I couldn’t leave you here when you were unconscious and broken, I just couldn’t. Especially… fuck, Feuilly. What do you remember? Cause I have a feeling if you remembered what happened, you’d be treating me much worse. I was a jerk to you, and it caused you to do something stupid, which almost killed you.” 

“I overreacted. You weren’t a jerk, you were just joking around, and I… I took it too seriously. It’s not the first time.”

The last sentence brought pain for Feuilly. None of the ABC knew the struggle he’d been through relationship-wise with Bahorel. They’d never actually dated or anything, but that was the problem. Bahorel joked about their fuck-buddy friendship, and he didn’t realize that Feuilly had _actual_ feelings for him. But, as Bahorel never even made a sign of reciprocating the feelings, it made Feuilly feel used by his best friend. Like he was just a toy that Bahorel needed when he wanted sex. And then Bahorel would go off and date another guy or have sex with another guy and it’d make Feuilly feel worse.

Bahorel smiled, though, continuing to be oblivious to Feuilly’s true feelings. Dammit, why was he so bad at telling people he loved them? He had fallen in love with Éponine in the same sense as he had Bahorel, and he had been rejected both times.

“Is Éponine alright?” 

Bahorel shrugged. “She’s… fine.”

The Polish boy didn’t respond.

“You got rejected by _Éponine_? Damn, if I hadn’t been some insensitive bastard and ugh, I’m sorry. About shaming your sexual orientation, too. I didn’t mean to, honestly, I’ve got nothing against pansexuals. I guess I just always though you were… gay, like me. It never occurred to me.” 

“It’s fine, Bahorel. And you’re not an insensitive bastard.”

He was silent.

“Sensitive bastards are worse, and you’re _totally_ sensitive.”

Bahorel laughed. “My boy’s back!”

Feuilly chuckled and tried to sit up, which made his head pound in agony. “ _Shit_ ,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Don’t try and get up, you’re not going anywhere for a few days. Medic’s order.”

The redhead groaned. “Tell me what’s been going on the past few days, then. While I’ve been out of commission.” 

“Well, Marius was told that Éponine loved him—” Feuilly winced. “—Combeferre is a virgin, Bossuet’s back up and functioning, much to Joly’s pleasure. Enj and Taire had sex, and R is still having trouble walking. That didn’t stop him and Combeferre going on a supply run, and they found a pharmacy and market where they got some meds, drinks, and some food. Uhm… they burned Gavroche’s body yesterday, which was sad. Otherwise, it’s been pretty dull.”

“Damn, Bahorel, that’s not _dull._ ”

He shrugged.

“Burning Gav’s body, that must’ve made Courfeyrac sob.” 

“Just a bit.”

“And Grantaire and Combeferre?”

“An unlikely and surprising friendship.”

“ _Ferre’s a virgin_?”

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Why is everyone so surprised by that? The dude has had his nose in his books since we first met him.”

“I guess you’ve got a point.” Feuilly paused. “How was… y’know, snuffing Gavroche? Seeing him as a zombie? Shit, he was so young, that must’ve been hard.”

“I’m tough.”

Feuilly scowled. “Cut the crap and give me the truth.”

“Fine, it was _hard_ , okay? I really liked the little fucker.” 

“Better.”

Bahorel gave him a pained smile. “C’mon, let me bake you something. You can lean on me to walk, I don’t care what Joly says.” 

“Since when have you been into baking?”

“Since forever.” Bahorel winked. “There’s really quite a bit you don’t know about me. But I guess you know more than most.”

“Like how I know about crossdressing hobby?”

“Exactly.”

Feuilly leaned on his best friend’s shoulder as he got up to walk. “Let’s see how good this baking of yours actually is, then.”

# ~

At dinner that night, when Bahorel and Feuilly entered the room, Marius beamed. “Oh yay. You’ve made up.” 

“There’s been enough drama around here lately,” Grantaire muttered.

“Shut up, R.”

Éponine was lying with her back on the floor and her feet up against the wall. Ever since the douchebags of the ABC had let Marius know that she liked him, the puppy had been acting strange around her. She wanted to kick every one of their asses.

When Feuilly glanced at her—she had been sure he would—she didn’t even try to smile. She was seriously pissed at him for his comment. Sure, ‘Ponine knew he probably deserved an apology from her because she probably said something to make him have a hissy fit and then go and kill himself killing zombies.

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry, Éponine.”

She turned her head the slightest to see him better. He was leaning on Bahorel because his body was so beaten and fucked up because he had fucking abused himself and it made her fucking heart hurt.

“I _am_ as oblivious as the puppy,” she whispered, half-hoping he would hear her. She had realized this a while ago, but knew that admitting it was the first step.

Feuilly smiled, obviously picking up on her quiet comment. Bahorel helped him sit on the couch, and then Éponine got up to sit next to him, much to Bahorel’s detest, but the big guy didn’t comment. He walked into the kitchen.

“That was a pretty nasty glare he gave you, ‘Ponine,” Jehan said.

“Mhm. That’s about normal, these days. He hasn’t been very happy with me.”

That, of course, made her think about her conversation with Bahorel.

# ~

She had been sitting on the screened porch for five hours. Not very many zombies passed, which surprised her; the herd had been right behind them. Her feet were up on the chair next to her, and she was lounging casually, thinking about what Feuilly had said to her.

“You, Éponine Thérnardier, are a bitch.”

‘Ponine glanced back at the door to see a very pissed off Bahorel standing there. She sighed. “Yes, I am a bitch. And you’re a whore. Are we pointing out the obvious?”

“Oh, shut up. You hurt my best friend, and I’m going to hurt you for it.” 

“ _Feuilly? I_ hurt _Feuilly?_ No, dearest whore, I didn’t hurt him.”

“Will you stop being a bitch for three seconds and let me explain?” Bahorel growled. “You _did_ hurt him. You broke his fucking heart. Listen, I know you’re pissed off at Marius and at the world, but do not take it out on that fucker, because he is the greatest fucking douchebag ever to exist and nobody is fucking allowed to hurt him.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Y’know, you sound more angry with yourself than with me? Did you scwew up and make your boyfwiend angwy?”

“Goddammit, Éponine, open your eyes. Feuilly liked you!” 

“Yeah, I’ve been out here awhile. I figured that out.” 

“Fuck sure, I fucking fucked up and I’m fucking pissed at myself. But I had to save that boy from turning into one of those fuckers, and you had a part in making him go kill himself!” 

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “He what?” 

Bahorel licked his lips. “You heard me.”

“I’ve been out here. Tell me everything, whore. If I did something to make him do _anything_ I deserve the right—”

“He got upset with me because I said some things that hurt him, okay? He’d been crying, and I had figured out that he was in fucking love because he’s only ever acted like he has been once, and I was too oblivious the first time to catch it before it hurt him. He’s a softie, okay, and he doesn’t know how to admit his feelings. I’ve known him long enough to figure that out. So, I acted like a dick and got him pissed at me and he stormed off with an axe and a gun and ran right into the herd. And you know what? He _destroyed_ every one of the fuckers. And he came back and _died_. He collapsed in the kitchen and his _fucking heart stopped_. He was dead. If I hadn’t… If I… fuck, I can’t do this.”

“He’s… dead?” Éponine asked in shock.

“No, he’s not. When Joly heard me yell, he jumped up too fast and sprained his ankle. I did what I remembered from one CPR class I had to take in high school and… I fixed him. He’s alive, I stopped him from being dead.”

“Oh my god. I heard you scream, but shit, I thought you were just being a drama queen.”

“I shot your brother.” 

The comment was spontaneous, but Ponine didn’t question it. She simply sighed. “I figured, since you were with him. There are only two others who would’ve had the guts to shoot him, and that would’ve been either Enjolras or Grantaire, and even then, they’d probably be hurt from it. I’m glad it was you, so nobody else got hurt.”

“You think… you think it didn’t hurt _me_ to have to shoot him? He was fucking twelve, Éponine, and already dead. I watched him die twice. I watched his body be taken over by that fucking disease. It fucking _killed me_.”

“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry? He was _my brother_.”

Bahorel didn’t comment.

“Can I see… Do you still have his body?”

“Yeah.” 

“And Feuilly?”

“He’s… he’s still unconscious, but you can see him.”

“I’ll take Gavroche. Feuilly… hopefully I’ll talk to him when he wakes.” 

She sat up and started to go inside, but Bahorel stopped her by telling her: “We’re gonna burn his body today.”

“Good. It’ll make extra sure he’s not coming back. Because I never want to see him that way.”

# ~

“So, Feuilly,” Courfeyrac said, shaking Éponine out of her thoughts. “How’s it feel to come back from being deaded?”

Combeferre groaned. “Courfeyrac, your allusions are overbear—” 

“What do you mean?” Feuilly asked, startled.

“Damn.” Courf made a face. “Did… Bahorel not tell you everything?” 

Feuilly looked around. “No, apparently. What about me being dead?”

Joly, who was sitting next to Bossuet with his ankle elevated, was the one who answered him. “When you came back in from you’re killing spree, you… you kind of…”

“Died,” Grantaire muttered, getting to the point. “You died.”

The ginger balled his fists. “Killing spree? _Bahorel_!”

Bahorel reluctantly peered around the corner of the kitchen door. “Yes?”

“ _Get your ass in here and explain this to me_!”

Wearing a pink apron (which he’d found in the kitchen) and with flour all over his hands, Bahorel came into the living room and explained what had happened to Feuilly; how he had gone off and killed the herd, come back, died, and got revived. He did, however, leave out who revived him.

“I… I think I remember,” Feuilly muttered when he finished. “Now that you mention it, I sort of remember the axe… damn, there was so much of that oily shit.”

Courf grinned, despite the down mood of the room, and patted Feuilly’s shoulder. “Mr. Sulu, remind me not to piss you off.” 

“ _Courfeyrac_!”

Most of the room chuckled, but Combeferre was scowling. Also, very discreetly and unnoticed by the ABC—excluding Grantaire—he crossed his legs.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured, and got up and headed into the direction of the bathroom. He very gently pulled down on the hem of the black hoodie he was wearing.

As soon as he left the room, Grantaire busted out laughing.

Enjolras, a little concerned at his boyfriend’s outburst, asked, “What is it?”

Taire couldn’t stop laughing to answer. 

“Oh god,” Courfeyrac realized. 

“ _What?_ ” Enj demanded.

“Cross, bathroom, pull.”

“Oh c’mon dude, you’re killing us,” Bahorel complained. 

Grantaire finally stopped laughing enough to say, “ _Ferre is turned on_!” just as Combeferre walked back into the room at that moment.

All the laughing stopped, and the room was dead silent.

Ferre’s face was tomato red, and he kept glancing at Courfeyrac. Finally, he broke the silence and whispered, “It’s getting late, I think I’ll be getting to bed.”

Nobody bid him goodnight, but he left anyway. Not a single voice dared to speak after that for a good two minutes.

“This isn’t good,” Jehan said, breaking the silence. “I was happy getting out of the drama phase.”

“It’s _us_ , Jehan,” Marius told him. “It’s _always_ going to be dramatic.”

Enjolras shifted. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“No, uh, I should.” Courf said awkwardly. 

“Second it,” Grantaire murmured, pulling Enjolras closer to him.

Courfeyrac, ever-so awkwardly, got up and treaded up the stairs after Combeferre. He stopped in front Ferre’s bedroom door and took a long, deep breath before knocking. When the bookworm didn’t reply, he let himself in.

Combeferre was laying face-down on the bed. When the door opened, he groaned into his mattress, “Go away.” 

“Sorry, I can’t do that.” 

He didn’t stir when he heard that it was Courfeyrac.

“Can we… talk?”

“I don’t think I really have a choice, now do I?”

“Probably not, no.”

Ferre sat up and looked Courf in the eye.

“Grantaire told me before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. _Cross, Bathroom, Pull_. I thought he was joking, but…”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I knew someone was bound to catch on eventually.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “ _Allusions_? Seriously?”

“I just… like it when you make people laugh. It’s not really just allusions, necessarily, but… when you… use them as a source of humor. I just always imagined… you were very humorous…”

Courf waited.

“…in bed.” 

“Want to find out?” 

Combeferre looked down. “I’m not joking, Courfeyrac.” 

“Yeah. I’m not either.”

Just as Ferre looked up Courf crushed his lips against him so hard that his glasses were nearly knocked off his nose. Combeferre lurched back, away from the other man.

“I-I’m sorry, Courfeyrac,” he murmured. “I want to kiss you, I just… I don’t know how.”

“Would you allow me to teach you, then? Cause you’re the only thing on my mind at the moment, and I’m dead set on having you inside me.”

“Uhm, I-uh, Courfeyrac, um, I can’t—”

“I’m not misreading the signs, am I?” Courf asked. “Cause that would suck. I really, really love you.”

The smile on Combeferre’s face was huge. “I love you, too. I didn’t think—”

“Well you thought wrong, bookworm. My heart is, and always will be, yours.”

Ferre lunged at him and grabbed onto his waist. He kissed him aggressively as he moaned, “ _Courfeyrac_ , the allusions,” before kissing his neck. 

“Turn you on, yes? Because, although I was quoting Sense and Sensibility—”

“Which happens to be one of my favorite books.”

“—I also actually meant it. You have my heart, baby. Also, about that, please call me baby more. I noticed you did that… when we got here—” 

“I’ve always fantasized about calling you baby.” 

“Call me baby, then. And you’ll be my bookworm.”

“Not very appealing.”

“What do I call you, then?”

Ferre half-smiled, and Courf raised an eyebrow in question.

“What do you call me? Sexy.” 

Courfeyrac grinned, catching on. “Only when we’re alone.” 

Ferre winked. “We are alone.”

“Oh. Come on, then, sexy.” 

Combeferre bit into his neck, careful not to hurt his lover. Courf moaned. Loudly. Then, starting at the “V” of Courfeyrac’s v-neck, he literally tore his shirt off of him. Courfeyrac looked at him in awe as Ferre inched down toward his pants. 

“Holy shit.” Courf tensed as Combeferre began to undo his jeans. “Are you sure you’re a virgin?” 

“Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I don’t know how to undress someone. You have to remember I do a lot of reading… and a surprising amount of it is fanfiction.”

Combeferre pushed Courf back onto the bed, and quickly, almost inhumanly fast, undressed himself. Then he spread Courfeyrac’s legs and—for lack of better term—sucked his dick.

Courfeyrac knew how to give a blow job. He knew how to give a good blow job. Hell, if he tried hard enough, he could probably muster a great blow job. But what Combeferre was doing didn’t even come close to the word “great.” It fell more along the lines of “fantastic,” “marvelous,” and “fucking fuck—orgasm.” 

“ _Jesus fucking Christ, Combeferre_.”

Pulling back with a twist, Ferre smiled and said, “I told you, a lot of fanfiction.” 

“There is no—” Courf leaned down and kissed him on the lips. “—fucking—” He kissed him again. “—way—” And again. “—you learned that from reading _fanfiction._ ”

Combeferre reached over into his dresser drawer and pulled out a tub of lube. “I snagged it on the supply run Grantaire and I took,” he explained at Courfeyrac’s questioning stare. “Taire and I actually had quite a nice talk that day, and when I grabbed a jar, well… he thought it best to grab another for him and Enjolras.” 

“Shh, I don’t want to talk about R and Enj, right now. I want to use that lube in your hand.”

“That’s a fantastic idea.”

After opening the jar, Combeferre dipped his fingers in the cold, filmy substance and gingerly eased one finger into Courfeyrac. His gentleness surprised Courf; he’s been so rough and aggressive the moment before, but now he seemed like he was trying not to cause his lover much pain. Courf wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or amused.

“Are you alright?” 

Courfeyrac nodded.

“Good.”

He pushed another of his thin fingers in, and Courf groaned, “Dammit, Ferre, you’re spending too much time on this.” 

Combeferre knew he should spend more time prepping Courfeyrac, but his instincts took over at his lover’s whiny voice. He pulled his fingers out of his anus and then, after coating his cock with lube, pushed in, and—after asking once more if Courf was comfortable—began to fuck him.

“You don’t have to be so gentle, Ferre,” Courfeyrac murmured, but it was more like a moan. No matter what he said, he was very much enjoying this.

“I-I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You never will, sexy. Never ever.” 

Combeferre was a little more rough, but he couldn’t shake it out of his head that he was hurting Courfeyrac. Courf was obviously impressed, though, but Ferre knew he couldn’t push him to his climax. He was very sexually experienced, and Ferre wasn’t sure if the fact that Courfeyrac seemed to love him was enough to push him.

His lover was having similar thoughts, but not making it obvious. Except Courfeyrac wasn’t worried about his own climax; he was worried about Combeferre’s.

“Y’know,” Combeferre managed, panting, “you could… if you want…” 

Courf glanced up, licked his lips, and grinned. “Want me to fuck your brains out, baby?” 

Ferre eased himself out of Courfeyrac and switched places with him. He threw his legs over Courfeyrac’s shoulders and shot him a half-smile.

“You, my dear,” Courf murmured, rubbing a coat of lubrication on his penis, “are very enthusiastic.”

Combeferre’s scream as Courfeyrac rammed into him was… loud, for a word. Once Courf was at a constant, steady pace, though, Ferre’s screams morphed into moans of pleasure.

“You sure have done a lot of moaning,” Courfeyrac whispered seductively. “But I haven’t heard my name yet.” 

“Oh, _Courfeyrac_!”

“Good boy.” 

Courfeyrac rocked him so hard that his glasses were shaken off. They fell on the floor and the two fuckers easily forgot about them.

Courf didn’t warn Combeferre when he’d reached his climax; he just came into him, Ferre following right after. Combeferre pulled the fluffy-haired man down beside him in the bed, pressing his forehead against his lover’s.

“ _When was the last time you came so hard and so long you forgot where you are_?”

Combeferre smiled at Courfeyrac’s comment. “I love you. I love you and all your silly allusions, and your _fantastic hair_ , and your wonderful self. You’re so kind and optimistic, and fuck, I fucking love you.”

“And I love you.”

There was a break as they caught their breath, curling up into each others arms. Finally, Combeferre spoke again. 

“I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

Ferre took Courfeyrac’s hands in his. “Will you sleep with me?”

Courf laughed. “It would be my pleasure.”

And so they fell asleep together, Courfeyrac spooning Combeferre. Courf kept a really tight grip on his lover; holding him tight and not letting go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much drama.

Feuilly slammed his drink down on the kitchen counter. Bahorel stood across the room, looking at him innocently. 

“I still can’t believe I died.”

Bahorel twiddled his thumbs together. “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“No, it’s not your fault. It’s just… God, I can’t believe I even went _out_ there. It was so stupid and… I’ll never forget those memories. I got the opportunity to forget them for a short period of time, but they came rushing back so fast…”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m just an ass.” 

Bahorel took a long sip of the beer he was drinking. “That’s not true.”

Feuilly was quiet.

“Remember the old days?”

The ginger raised an eyebrow. 

“Back when we were living with Jehan in that small-ass apartment, and we used to fuck around. God, I loved those days. I always wish I’d gotten around to riding you; I’m still betting you can fuck really really good. I wish… I wish I hadn’t fucked it up.”

“What do you mean, Bahorel?” Feuilly’s voice was filled with sorrow and pain; that _had_ been the good days, until everything had gone downhill and Feuilly had gotten his heart broken.

“I _fucked up_. So fucking baldy. I wish I hadn’t hurt you, I never want to fucking hurt you. I’m not much for confessions of love—”

“Bahorel, don’t.”

“No. I’ve liked you for a long time, and I fucked up. I don’t want to be just fuck buddies, I want to be your—”

“Please, Bahorel, you’re drunk.”

“ _I’m not fucking drunk, Feuilly_. I want to be your boyfriend!” 

“And I want to be yours!”

Bahorel looked up at him, his eyes clear and sober.

“I’ve always wanted to be yours, Bahorel! _Always_! You have to have seen that at least a little bit! I wanted to be with you so bad but you fucking went sleeping around! You _used_ me! I felt like a goddamn sex toy.”

“You were never a sex toy,” he murmured.

“ _But I was!_ That’s why I finally gave up on you! I didn’t just want a fuck buddy, I wanted a relationship! And I thought, just maybe, fucking with you meant that you felt the same way toward me, but I was _wrong_!”

Feuilly’s last word rang out throughout the room, echoing off of the walls. Bahorel bit the inside of his cheek before responding to his friend’s outbreak.

As quiet as he could manage, Bahorel whispered, “You weren’t wrong.”

“But I was, Bahorel. For two _fucking_ years, I’ve been absolutely sure I’ve been wrong. I’ve been trying to push away those feelings for you, not thinking about how fucking sexy you look or your hot ass cross dressing. _I cannot get you out of my head_.” 

“I can’t get you out of mine, Feuilly. I’m not drunk, not at all; I’ve barely had anything to drink tonight. I’ve had feelings for you for _two years_. Just like you have. I’m just shitty at communicating, and I fucked up. Look at you now, screaming and ranting. You’ve been holding your anger back for a very long time. But you died, and I saved you because I couldn’t stand the thought of you becoming one of those _things_ —”

“ _You_ saved me?”

Bahorel nodded.

Feuilly reached out for Bahorel’s hand, and the crossdresser grabbed it and gripped it tight. 

“I would never let you die.”

“You stubborn little fuck, you can’t live without me.”

“You’re very right: I _cannot_ live without you.” Bahorel squeezed his hand. “So no more killing sprees. There’s only a one-time guarantee on the life-saving thing. I wasn’t even sure I could manage it that time.” Bahorel sat up on the counter and pulled Feuilly into his lap. “Remember how we used to hold hands like this?” 

Feuilly nodded. “Best times of my life. Followed by the worst, of course, but… I missed this.”

“I’m so sorry for that. And I have, too. Missed this. Missed… you.”

“Well, then, hopefully it’ll happen more often.”

“I look forward to it.” 

The two smiled, pressed their left cheeks against each other’s, and closed their eyes, in a mental palace of true bliss.

# ~

Waking up in the morning wasn’t easy; Combeferre didn’t want to do it. Unfortunately, his perfectly tuned brain refused to let him fall back asleep. Realizing there was nothing he could do, he yawned and rolled over, right into Courfeyrac.

His lover didn’t wake, just wrapped his arms around Ferre, which made him smile.

Courfeyrac was one of the cutest things _ever_ in the morning. Combeferre knew Courf strongly disliked mornings, but he was so adorable after a good night’s sleep. His hair was rumpled and certain to be a hassle when he got around to fixing it. He had a small puddle of drool on his pillow, but he didn’t seem to be drooling. He curled up around whatever was near him, and seemed more than comfortable curled around Ferre.

“Good morning,” he whispered into Combeferre’s neck. 

“I didn’t realize you were awake, baby.”

Ferre felt him smile. “Old trick I learned. It’s easier to fake being asleep in the morning than at night.”

“How long have you been awake?”

Courf didn’t answer.

“Courfeyrac?”

“Awhile.” 

Combeferre turned in his lover’s arms and locked eyes with him. “You didn’t have to wait for me to get up.”

“Yeah, I did. Besides, you’re _adorable_.” 

He blushed. “What time is it?”

“Late.” 

“Should we get down there…?”

Courfeyrac tightened his grip around Ferre’s body. “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want to let go of you. Ever.”

“I’m okay with that.” 

They both smiled and kissed, cuddling with each other.

# ~

“Is it sad to say I haven’t been this happy in a long time?” 

Jehan rolled his eyes. “Yes, Bahorel. That’s really sad to say, considering the apocalypse.”

“I hate to break up your happy moment, considering that doesn’t come around very often,” Enjolras grumbled, pacing back in forth, “but we’re really got a problem.” 

Feuilly, who was holding hands with Bahorel, glanced at Grantaire in question. The cynic shrugged and whispered, “He’s been like this all morning. He woke up at about three sweating and was up and dressed quicker than imaginable. It’s weird, he usually isn’t fully awake until eight, at least.”

“And he hasn’t told you anything?”

“Nothing.”

Feuilly and Bahorel were sitting on the couch with Grantaire, Jehan sitting in the love seat alone. The rest of the ABC was still in their beds, sleeping soundly. Bahorel had been on watch when Enjolras stormed downstairs, Feuilly sitting with him. Jehan had been woken from the ruckus and followed Enjolras with Taire.

“Waiting for Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” Enjolras murmured, just loudly enough for them to hear.

“They might be awhile,” R told him. “Why don’t you sit down and calm yourself? Come sit with me.”

Enj seemed to consider it for a moment, but did finally decide to come sit with his boyfriend. Taire scooted over and allowed him to sit between Feuilly and him, rubbing the leader’s back gently.

“Bahorel,” Grantaire said, his voice thin, “could you get me a bottle?”

Enjolras tensed at that, but Bahorel didn’t hesitate. He got up, breaking contact with Feuilly for just a moment, and tossed Taire a bottle of red wine.

He drank some slowly directly from the bottle, and then offered some to Enjolras, who stoutly refused. He seemed to revel at R’s drinking, but didn’t comment, like he normally would. Grantaire had cut his alcohol intact back by a considerable amount since they started dating, and Enj knew that he had been craving some for a long time, but didn’t want to upset Apollo. 

“Were you guys having a party without me?” Bossuet asked, coming downstairs with Joly at his side.

“Not a party, Bossuet,” Feuilly muttered.

“What’s going on?” Joly questioned, scowling and looking directly at Enjolras.

The leader didn’t answer.

“Nothing good,” Jehan replied for him.

“I know I’m gonna regret coming out,” Éponine murmured as she came out of her bedroom, still in the same t-shirt and jeans combo from the night before, “but why the fuck are you guys talking so loud?” 

“Jesus Christ, ‘Ponine,” Cosette deadpanned as she and Marius came into the room. “You’re louder than all of them.”

“Bite me; it’s early.” 

Enjolras sighed and leaned into Grantaire. Taire closed his eyes, relaxed with his boyfriend that close to him.

“I just need to tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

“You can’t tell me?”

Enjy kissed his cheek. “I don’t want to think about you in affiliation to this thought. It scares me.”

“It _scares_ you? Crap. It must be pretty bad.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

They waited, and Grantaire kept his arms around his boyfriend the entire time. At one point, Jehan attempted to keep them all entertained and happy with his poetry, but the rest of Les Amis didn’t fancy poetry very much, and it failed.

Finally, Courfeyrac and Combeferre emerged from Ferre’s room, grinning and giggling at each other. Ferre wasn’t wearing his glasses, which was unusual. When they caught sight of the gloomy ABC, their moods changed.

“What’s going on?” Courf asked.

Enjolras easily broke Grantaire’s grip and took his two best friends by their arms, carefully leading them into a closet; the same closet where Bahorel had shot Gavroche.

“We’re not doing anything,” Enjolras said when the door closed, “not a _single_ thing for the people. We have to… we’re not _saving_ anyone. That’s what we _do_. We fight for the people, we save the people, we free the people, we listen to the people. Do you hear the people sing?”

Courfeyrac blinked. “Enj, we’re doing what we can—”

“But we’re _not_ , don’t you see? There’s a source behind all of this… we have to find it.”

“Are you… suggesting we go to Europe to find the beginnings of this disease?” Combeferre asked.

“Perhaps. We have to do _something_. The people must be free.”

Courf nodded. “He’s right.”

Ferre frowned. “We need the rest of the ABC to decide properly. It can’t only fall on our shoulders.”

Enjolras scowled at this, but saw some reasoning to it. “Fine, then.”

He burst out of the closet determinedly, and pitched his idea to Les Amis. 

“That’s what I’ve wanted to do,” Cosette said, and Marius naturally backed her up.

“It’s a suicide mission.”

Grantaire’s voice echoed throughout the room, everyone stopping to stare at him. He blushed from the attention, but snapped, “It’s a bloody suicide mission.”

“We don’t have another _choice_ , Grantaire!” Enjolras lowered his eyebrows and glared at the cynic. “The people—”

“Would you really send your friends to die? The people you love the most? You’re loyal to the people, Enjolras, but _what about your friends_?”

“Then let us die facing our foes!” Enj shouted at him. “It doesn’t matter whether we win or lose, only that we fight this! We make them bleed while we can!”

Combeferre agreed with him. “Make ‘em pay through the nose—”

Remembering Gavroche, Courf added, “Make them pay for every man.”

Taire drank the last sip of the content in his bottle before throwing it on the floor and scattering the glass. He then stormed off somewhere in the house.

“Grantaire—”

“Let him go, Combeferre.” Enjolras sighed. “He’ll come around.”

Jehan cleared his throat uneasily. “How do you propose we continue, Enjolras?”

“We find a way to get across the Atlantic. Bahorel, that man you spoke to at the Pride Festival—did he say where in Europe this disease originated?”

“France,” Bahorel answered, squeezing Feuilly’s tense hand. 

“Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Ferre backed him up. “The first city that reported to fall was said to be Paris.”

“That’s where we start, then,” Enj announced. “Could you find the nearest airport, Combeferre?”

Ferre nodded, and went to go get his laptop. Courfeyrac stared after him, focusing on the way his ass and thighs moved when he semi-ran.

“What, are you expecting to catch a flight, Enjolras?” Éponine asked sarcastically.

“Actually, yes. The airports have been closed for a month, so where did they store the American airplanes?”

“At the unused airports,” Feuilly murmured.

“Precisely.”

Jehan shifted. “Someone should talk to Grantaire—”

“He’s being stubborn,” Enjolras muttered. “Don’t bother. I told you; he’ll come around.”

Bahorel stood up—releasing Feuilly’s hand—glared at Enjolras, and stormed off toward the direction Grantaire went. Enj shouted at him, but he didn’t stop.

“R!”

Bahorel stood at the door to the bathroom, drumming on it.

“Unless you have vodka, do not come in here.”

“Taire!”

Bahorel barreled into the door with his shoulder, breaking it down easily. Grantaire was sitting against the bathroom wall with his blade out and cutting into his wrist.

“ _Dude!_ ”

He snatched the knife away from the cynic and screamed for Joly. Taire was pissed at him, naturally, and sighed when Joly came hobbling to them, Bossuet supporting him. Joly leaned down and demanded for a cloth, which Bossuet delivered to him, and pressed it to Grantaire’s bleeding wrist with force. R cursed a few times, but otherwise gave no reaction. 

All the while, Enjolras stood at the door watching the events unwind. He carefully kept his emotions steady. 

When Joly finished bandaging the skeptic’s wrist, Enjolras said, “Don’t leave him alone, and don’t give him back that knife. Or anything sharp, for that matter.”

His face was so stone-cold that Taire could’ve mistaken him for a marble statue. Enj left, not looking at him again. Grantaire’s heart broke.

“C’mon, R,” Bahorel murmured, tucking the dagger in a sheath. “Let’s get some of that vodka. You seem like you need it.”

# ~

Grantaire almost drank himself to death that morning. He probably would have, actually, if Bahorel hadn’t stopped him. To him, life wasn’t worth living. He was most certain he’d lost the love of his life, and his friends didn’t treat him the same after they’d found him in the bathroom. He figured he could drink until he died—it was the only alternative to going out and getting bit by a zombie, and then one of his friends would shoot him. Or, better yet, they’d let him become a zombie and choke in his own misery.

“Taire.”

Combeferre sat at his bed that afternoon, after R had slept and been left with a nasty hangover. 

Ferre didn’t seem angry or cold. He seemed worried. Their relationship was very simple; Combeferre never really questioned any of Grantaire’s decisions or actions, but followed along with him. Especially when they were fighting or working together. Because Ferre understood what R was doing and (usually) agreed with him.

This was one of the first times Combeferre really seemed to question Taire. The bookworm knew a lot about Grantaire’s history and his clinical depression. The only time he’d ever had a direct encounter with it was when Taire cut himself in his presence, and even then he hadn’t realized what the cynic was doing. 

“I don’t want him to die,” Grantaire whispered. “Because if you do this—if _we_ do this—he’s going to die and take us all down with him. There’s no way we can win this fight, and I think you know that.”

Of course, Combeferre knew that. He understood that it was a suicide mission from the moment Enjolras pitched the idea. Combeferre understood a lot of things, and he understood the reasoning behind why people did things. He understood why Grantaire didn’t want to let his friends do this, but he also understood why Enjolras did.

They were very similar, but also very different. Both of them didn’t want the other to die, but Grantaire thought going on this mission would kill them, and Enjolras thought staying would kill them. Combeferre wasn’t sure who was right.

“And now I’ve lost him. I’m sure of it.”

Ferre snorted. “Taire, you didn’t lose him over one little disagreement. He’s in love with you. I don’t think he’s gonna let you go that easily.”

“Didn’t you see the way he looked at me?”

“I saw. It’s not because he’s angry with you or upset with you, he’s worried about you. It’s the same look he gets when you drink or do drugs. He’s concerned, and, honest to god, a little disappointed.”

“It’s my coping mechanism—”

“It’s a sucky one!”

Grantaire shook his head. “I knew it. I knew it was all too good to be true. Having an angel of a boyfriend, both you and Courfeyrac supporting me, feeling like I’m actually accepted… it was too good.”

“But you deserve happiness.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You do, Grantaire.”

The angelic voice hit his ear drums like wind chimes. Taire looked up for the first time to find Enjolras leaning on the bedpost. His eyes were bloodshot, his perfect hair tangled and messy, his skin pale. He looked terrible. He looked… worried.

“Can you stand?” Enjolras asked him.

R nodded.

“Come here.”

And he did. Slowly, Grantaire got out of bed and walked over to Enj. He looked even worse than Enjolras; but that was to be expected.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

Enjy tried to smile, but it looked pained. He brought his hand around from behind his back and opened his fist to reveal brushes in his hand. Paint brushes. “I want—I _need_ you to paint me something.”

Grantaire sighed. “I don’t have any—”

“There are canvases in the sitting room. Go and paint me something.”

Shocked, Grantaire nodded and took the art supplies. Glancing carefully at Apollo, he left the room and made his way to the sitting room.

Combeferre sighed. “Painting? Clever strategy, my friend.”

“I thought so.” Enj licked his dry, pink lips. “I wonder what he’ll decide to paint.”

“Oh, I think I know.” 

Enjolras stared at Ferre for a minute before smiling and exiting the room.

# ~

Finding Grantaire in the bathroom wasn’t the worst thing that happened to Bahorel; he’d found Taire in much worse of positions. He knew how to handle it, though; lots of drinking. Bahorel didn’t drink much, but R was hitting it hard, like usual.

After Taire had knocked himself unconscious with so much consumption of alcohol and Bahorel had carried him up to his room (which he so happened to share with Enjolras, but the leader was no where in sight), he found Feuilly and brought him to the kitchen.

“I want to teach you how to cook.”

Feuilly raised his eyebrows. “Are you drunk?”

“Why is it that whenever I want to do something romantic you assume I’m drunk?” Bahorel wrapped his arms around Feuilly and kissed his cheek. “I’m sober, by the way. I only had a few sips with R. I just really want to teach you how to cook.”

“And that’s romantic?”

Bahorel slipped his hands down to grip the redhead’s waist. “It can be.”

Feuilly grinned. “Continue.”

After tying an apron around his own waist, Bahorel led Feuilly around the kitchen, teaching him how to make sugar cookies. Eventually, it became difficult for Bahorel to cook and hold hands with Feuilly at the same time, so he hoisted the thin Polish boy on his back. Feuilly wrapped his legs around Bahorel’s waist and his arms around the crossdresser’s neck.

“See? It’s pretty simple.”

“How’re they gonna taste, though?”

“Fantastic. You wait and see.” 

Feuilly pursed his lips. “How long does it take to bake?” 

“Not long.”

“Hm.”

From the other room, they both heard the clear sound of someone choking back a sob. Bahorel, still carrying Feuilly on his back, snuck into the living room to find Joly and Bossuet on the couch, holding hands.

Bossuet had tears on his cheeks. Joly was trying to comfort him, speaking softly and gently.

“Y’know it’s my fault,” Bossuet muttered, louder than his fiancé was speaking. “It’s my bad luck. It’s my fault.”

Joly shushed him. “Laigle, it’s not your fault. You did _not_ cause the apocalypse.”

“We were going to be happy. We could finally get married and start a family like you’d always dreamed. And Musichetta—we don’t know where ‘Chetta _is_ , now. And everyone who can legally marry us is either dead or too busy to deal with us, and ‘legalize’ doesn’t even matter anymore because the world is dead and gone and—”

“I could marry you.”

Valjean eased onto the couch beside him. It seemed—like Bahorel and Feuilly—he had been listening in to the couple’s not-so-private conversation. 

“I was a mayor,” Valjean told them. “I have the legal ability to oversee and legalize your wedding.”

Bossuet stared at him questioningly. 

Valjean smiled. “Really, I’m not the heartless, cold man you must think me to be.”

“You’re… Catholic.”

“Yes, I am. But, while I may think your actions as being sinful, I know one thing for sure. Love is a tricky, powerful thing. People do crazy things in the name of love. A great woman once showed me the meaning of love, and, no matter how my own beliefs testify, I see that you love each other very much. And I think that great woman would kick my ass if I didn’t marry you.”

Cosette purred. “Oh, papa!”

She ran and tackled him with a hug, Marius watching her from where they had been eavesdropping. 

Joly sighed. “Is anyone else listening?” 

Instead of stepping out to see his friends, Bahorel turned and went back to his cookies, Feuilly on his back.

“That’s sweet,” Feuilly whispered when they were back in the kitchen, alone.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you describe something as sweet,” Bahorel replied as he pulled the cookie pan out of the oven.

“Grantaire! You’re awake!”

The cynic was sluggishly walking down the stairs when Feuilly noticed him. For a man with an obviously terrible hangover, he was functioning pretty well. He didn’t respond to the ginger’s outburst, though, but continued walking into the sitting room.

Enjolras came trotting down the stairs not seconds after Grantaire had. The leader was wearing a smug smile which became more questioning when he saw Bahorel, Feuilly, and a pan of cookies.

“Cookies?” Enj asked.

“Yeah. Want one?”

Skeptically, he reached out and took one of the cookies from the pan. He assessed them in his mind; they looked and smelled alright, and there was no way Feuilly and Bahorel could have poisoned them or drugged them… right?

He took a bite, against all of his better judgement.

“What is _in_ these?!” Enjolras exclaimed with pleasure. 

“It’s an old recipe my mom used to use,” Bahorel replied. “They’re the greatest, aren’t they?”

Feuilly hit Bahorel’s shoulder lightly. “Pass one up.”

Bahorel complied, and Feuilly had almost the same reaction as Enjolras did.

Soon, they’d found the rest of the ABC (except Grantaire; Enj made it very clear that no one was to bother him) and delivered them the cookies.

“Consider it an early wedding gift,” Bahorel said to Joly and Laigle. That comment, of course, raised the question on their marriage, which led to a celebration, which led to alcohol.

The most surprising part about it was that Grantaire missed it all.


	10. Chapter 10

Grantaire spent the entire night painting. 

Nobody dared to disturb him, except occasionally Enjolras, who would try and peek at whatever Taire was doing. Grantaire noticed quickly, though, and hid the art from Enj.

When the sun finally rose, R was covered in spots of paint, his hands were shaking violently, and he had completed three different paintings, finished two sketches, and started around twenty works that he’d either scraped or given up on. He was pretty sure he’d ruined the sitting room with all the paint that had splatted the walls and floor, but he didn’t care, and was hoping silently that no one would mind.

Taire was leaning against the back wall when Enjolras let himself in again. The cynic was sound asleep, snoring softly. Enj smiled and scooped Grantaire up in his arms, carrying the painter to their bedroom, where he curled up with his sleeping boyfriend on the bed (stubbornly ignoring the paint on R’s clothes). 

Meanwhile, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were discussing their relationship on Ferre’s bed (which really wasn’t the best idea).

“What do you think?”

“I think that we do _that_ more often, sexy.”   
Combeferre rolled his eyes. “I thought that was blatant. I meant… how do you want to take it?”

“You know how I take it.”

“ _Courfeyrac_.”

“Sorry, sorry. In all seriousness, I think we should take it… well, seriously. I love you—”

“And I love you.”

“What do you do when you love someone?”

Combeferre blushed. “I… I’ve never dated anyone before.”

“Really?”

“I’ve liked you for three years, and my parents wouldn’t let me date in high school.”

“So… I’m your first _everything_? Because—if you allow it—I’d like to be your boyfriend. And if I’m your first boyfriend, then I’m also probably your first kiss, and I _know_ I was your first—”

“God, Courfeyrac, you’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“I’m loving _you_.”

At this, Ferre smiled giddily. Just hearing him say those words made every bone in his body feel stronger and harder. Like something had made him more durable. Courfeyrac was a part of him now. 

“So, hey, what do you say, once this whole ‘apocalypse’ thing is over, we go out on a date? Like a _real_ date. To dinner, maybe?”

“Sounds like a plan.”   
Courf beamed and draped his hand over Combeferre’s neck before pulling his lips to the bookworm’s. Courfeyrac bit down on Ferre’s bottom lip and pushed him back on the bed, forcing his hips against Combeferre’s. Ferre curled his toes and moaned.

They rolled over, but what they hadn’t realized was how close to the edge of the bed they’d been. Courfeyrac crashed against the floor with Combeferre on top of him. He yelped in agony as multiple pieces of metal drove into his back.

“What is it?” Ferre exclaimed.

Courfeyrac sat up slowly, wincing the entire time. Combeferre grazed his back and searched for the point of impact with his hand. He groaned when he found it. Pieces of his (now broken) glasses were in Courfeyrac’s back as deep as a couple inches in, the spectacles completely crushed. 

“What is it?” Courf asked.

“We need to get Joly.”

“No! It’s just after dawn, he’s probably asleep. It’s not that bad, Ferre, just… can you deal with it?”

Combeferre gulped, but whispered, “Yes.”

He started pulling out pieces from his lover’s flesh, each yelp or whimper Courfeyrac gave hitting Combeferre’s ears like knives. The pieces of his glasses were coated in Courf’s blood. 

“Alright, shhh. It’s okay. They’re out.” Combeferre gently eased Courf’s shirt off of him, groped around his nightstand in search of a cloth of some sort. He found one and pressed it against Courfeyrac’s back. “You’re okay.”

Courf exhaled deeply. “What _was_ it?”

“My glasses.”

“ _Shit_.”

“I’m gonna go get a wet rag and some ice,” Combeferre told him. “Can you get to my bathroom?”

Courfeyrac started to nod, but then shook his head. Ferre helped him to his feet and led him to the bathroom before rushing to the kitchen. The living room and kitchen (in which he had to pass through to get from his room to the kitchen sink) were both deserted, so it was easy for him to find a rag, wet it, and then get a bag of ice out of the freezer, snag the first aid kit, and rush back to his bathroom in less than a minute.

Combeferre found Courf sitting on the counter, his wounded back to the door. He warned Courfeyrac before he did so, but gently cleaned out the wound with the rag, and then pushed the ice against it.

“I didn’t think glasses broke that easily,” Courfeyrac muttered.

“They don’t. Not like that, anyway. I guess the combined weight of us slamming down on them was too much.”

“Damn. Sorry about your glasses.”

“I’ll live. Obviously I’d forgotten about them until now. You, on the other hand—”

Courf rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Just patch it up and it’ll be gone in a few days.”

Combeferre opened up the first aid kit and began to bandage the odd wound. It didn’t take him long, although he was sure Joly could’ve done it better and more efficiently. 

Courfeyrac rumpled his already-messy hair and pulled Ferre into his arms. They sat that way for a few long minutes, just enjoying each other’s warmth.

“I suspect we’ll start working on the trip to Europe soon,” Combeferre finally said. “Enjolras told me we’d start as soon as he can convince Grantaire.”

“You think he can?”

“He knows what he’s doing.”

“R has a point, y’know.” Courf closed his eyes. “I understand. We’re safe here; for the most part, at least. Going out there… I don’t want to lose you.”

“Nor I, you. It’s definitely a risky decision. Honestly though… I’m more afraid for myself than you.”

Courfeyrac scowled.

“I’m afraid,” Ferre explained, “because my main job will be to protect you. Or Enjolras, or Taire, or Jehan, or Marius, or Cosette, or any of the others. I’m afraid that because I’ll be too frightened that one of you will get hurt— _especially_ you—I will focus too much on protecting you and not focus at all on myself.”

“I just wish we could all miraculously survive this,” Courfeyrac muttered. “I have a feeling that’s not going to happen. That’s why I dislike some books. They’re too unrealistic. If you go to war, you’re going to lose some, even if you win. Some are better than others. Harry Potter summarized it pretty well. You may win, but you’ll lose some that are important to you. Not everyone lives until the end.

“There’s a great fear in my mind that… that's what it’s going to be like for us. Even if we defeat this _thing_ , we’re still going to lose. We’ve already lost. I think about my parents everyday, and how the odds are they’re dead or one of those things out there. Gavroche, too. We lost because we lost them.”

“We all die in the end,” Combeferre told him. 

“Yes, but Gavroche didn’t live his life. I mean, we’ll never get to see a Gavroche Jr. running around causing mischief. He never got married or started a revolution or brought down the government. He didn’t do what he wanted to do.”

“He died a hero, Courfeyrac. I wish he could’ve lived, but he _did_ start a revolution. He started this war, and it’s our job—our _responsibility_ to him to finish it. To everyone we lost, and will lose. I… I can’t think about losing anyone else, and I know you’re absolutely right about about losing already. But their deaths can’t be for nothing. The world _will not_ get better until we finish this war. I mean, you said it yourself, baby. _Make them pay for every man_.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

Ferre pulled away from him to look into his beautiful eyes. “C’mon, sexy. Let’s get a jumpstart on this ‘planning’ thing. Because the sooner we end this, the sooner I get that date.”

# ~

The first thing Grantaire saw when he pried open his eyelids was a pair of bright blue eyes.

“I never thought I’d see those eyes that close to me again.”

Enjolras smiled. “You were wrong, it seems.”

The angel was completely wrapped around R, whereas Taire was as straight as a board. He lifted his arms hesitantly and asked if he could touch his boyfriend with a glance. Enjolras squeezed him with approval.

“Your paintings were beautiful,” Enj muttered.

“Not really.”

“Shut up. They were.”

Taire didn’t respond.

“I haven’t forgiven you yet. About the bathroom.”

Grantaire sighed.

“You shouldn’t have done it.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Enjolras squeezed him harder. “Remember what I said? About you hurting me when you hurt yourself?”   
“I thought… I thought I lost you.”

“Never.” The leader kissed him with such passion that Taire was honestly afraid he was going to break from Enjy’s tight grip. “But you… you promised me. I know how hard it is to keep your word in that situation, but _baby_ …”

Grantaire heaved a sigh as he pulled away from Enjolras. “Please don’t go to Europe.”

“Taire… I see your point. I really do. You have to see mine, too. This isn’t just about the people, it’s about _you_. I know the majority of the ABC feels the same way: we’re doing this to protect one another. We’re not going to ever be able to live again if we don’t end this.”

“Honestly, Enjolras, I’ve been living more since the dead started rising than I did before.”

“ _Please_. Are you afraid of your own death?”

“No, not of my own. I’m afraid of _you_ dying. I’m afraid of every one of those douches in the other room dying. I’ve already lost my biological family, I don’t want to lose my real one, too.”

Enj closed his eyes. “I understand. But please… we can’t stay here forever. And I _won’t_ lose you, nor you me. I’ve given you my heart, and I think you’ve given me yours in return. I won’t lose you without losing a part of me.”

Grantaire’s cheeks went red. “I love you, you persuasive bastard.”

“So you’re going to come?”

“Yes. I’m also going to let you go.”

Enjolras snuggled closer to the cynic. “Yay.”

“That was the most pathetic ‘yay’ I’ve ever heard. Also the most adorable.”

“Hey, I’m tired. I stayed up all night for you.” He paused. “Unfortunately, we should probably get up. We have a lot of work to do, and I think there are some of Bahorel’s cookies left to get us through it.”

Grantaire frowned. “I don’t need cookies. I need you.”

“And I’ll be right next to you the entire time. Now, why don’t _we_ go get a shower? You got paint all in our bed.”

# ~

After bathing, the couple playfully made their way downstairs to find Courfeyrac and Combeferre diligently working on the plans for Europe. Enjolras sat down at the table with them and pulled Grantaire into his lap.

“What do you have?” the leader asked. 

“It’s gonna be tough,” Ferre told him, surfing through the many papers on the table. “It’ll have to be perfectly planned and timed, but I don’t see that being too big of a problem. We have some of the greatest tactical minds in our midst.” 

“What we really need to worry about is how we’re going to get this airplane off the ground,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “There are twelve of us, at least _one_ of us should be able to pilot a 747.”

“I really don’t like that smile, Grantaire,” Enjolras commented on R’s ridiculously wide grin. “Please don’t tell me you were in the Air Force when you served in the military.”

“God no. Can you imagine _me_ flying a fighter jet? It would be chaos. But I do know someone who might be able to.”

Courf tensed. “I’m afraid to ask who.”

Taire glanced at Combeferre. “ _Ferre_ , I distinctly remember you saying the other day you studied aviation for a couple of years.”

Ferre’s face grew red. “I studied it, but I never actually flew a plane, especially a 747. I don’t know if I can—”

“When did you study aviation?” Enjolras asked, frowning. “We grew up near each other, we went to the same high school. I don’t remember you ever studying aviation.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Seriously? You don’t remember sophomore year? He got so invested in airplanes and aviation and _wouldn’t shut up about it_.”

“Was that the year I was taking AP U.S. History?”

“Yeah.”

“That explains why. I never listened to anybody that entire year because I was struggling with AP History so much. I was studying or doing homework every hour of the day, and even when I wasn’t, I didn’t pay much attention to anything else.”

“You struggled with _U.S. History_?” Taire exclaimed. “Of all of the subjects, you struggled with _that_?”

“How do you think I grew to hate the government so much?”

“That… actually makes sense.”   
Enj sighed. “Besides, I never cared for history of any sort. I’m much more excited by the future than the dark of ages past.”

“Anyway,” Combeferre murmured, cutting off Enjolras before he could start on a rant, “I don’t think I can fly it, Grantaire. I just don’t think I can.”

“You probably have a better shot than any of the rest of us,” R pointed out. “Especially if you hit up the books again. I’m sure it wouldn’t be a big deal, with the internet.”

Ferre groaned. “Fine. I’ll try. But if there is _anyone_ more qualified, I’m handing the position to them.”

Enjolras nodded. 

“As for getting to the airport, it means around twenty minutes on foot completely unprotected. I expect a lot of the zombies to be gathered there, considering there were always a lot of people there, even after the airways shut down.”

“And do you think we can get in, steal an airplane, and get out without any causalities?” 

“Absolutely not. Not even if everything goes our way.”

Grantaire hugged onto Enj a little tighter.

“And we’ll probably use all of our available ammo in this run, and not have enough for when we land in Europe. Also, landing in Europe will be difficult because A) I’ve heard it’s worse off over there than here and B) what the hell will we do from there? Plus navigating the plane to the right spot and jet fuel and fuck, Enjolras, I don’t know if we can pull this off.”

The leader sighed. “We have to. We can find a way to fix all of this! We stock up on ammunition from the local stores; food, too. You’re right, we don’t know how Europe is, except that it’s bad. We do what we can to prepare for the worst. That means loading up on jet fuel, on food, on weapons. And we hope to God that the plane we choose has a good, working navigation system.”

“And the causalities?” Courfeyrac asked.

Enjolras sighed. “We’ll just have to deal, I guess. I don’t see another option.”   
Grantaire licked his lips. 

“When do you think we should leave?” Ferre questioned.

“This is definitely something to do during the nighttime. Camouflage, right? We don’t need to draw much attention to ourselves. I’d say… a few days? That gives us enough time to hammer out a firm plan of action, get supplies, etc.”

Feuilly sighed as he entered the room. “Well I want some more goddamn cookies if we’re going to our deaths in a few days.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Méfiez-vous de la romance._
> 
>  
> 
> Translation: Beware of romance
> 
> There's a lot of plot in the chapter. Nothing too painful, I hope. Thanks again for reading (I'm sure I say this a lot in my chapter summaries, but I'm so so grateful. Seriously). Please leave me feedback, I'm always looking for it!

Working hard and efficiently was not a new concept for Les Amis (except maybe Grantaire), and they knew the best ways to utilize their skills. It was often Bahorel (always with Feuilly on his back, as that was that odd new cuddle-position they’d taken recently) who made most of the supply runs, and he was always accompanied by at least two of the others. They took turns with that job, but it was usually Grantaire, Éponine, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, or occasionally Joly who went with them. Combeferre spent all of his time inside and working up schematics. Jehan, Marius, and Cosette usually firmed out the details after Ferre and/or Enjolras created the majority of them.

They met Enjolras’s goal and were mostly ready to leave in four days time. One last supply run was needing to be made, and it looked as if Bahorel (and Feuilly), Enjolras, and Joly would be making it. Grantaire was opposed to this, as he didn’t want to be away from his boyfriend. Enj wasn’t very happy with the idea either, but understood that it had to be done.

“I’ll be right back,” the leader promised his boyfriend the night before as they laid in bed together. “You can help Combeferre? Put your intellect to use. Because you—don’t you fucking deny it, R. You’re so intelligent.”

“You’re changing the subject.” Taire paused. “I’ve been on a supply run before, Enjolras. What if… What if you don’t come back?” 

“I will.”

“You can’t promise me that.” 

“Trust me, love.”

R sighed and snuggled closer to his lover. “Please don’t go.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, and it tore at Enj’s heart. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep himself from shedding a tear.

They fell asleep in silence, neither of them daring to bring up the subject again. The next morning, when Grantaire awoke, Enjolras was gone.

“You needn’t be too worried about him,” Combeferre told him. He was staring out the window in R’s bedroom, perched upon the windowsill. “I’ve known Enjolras for a very long time. I trust his judgement. He knows that he’ll be safe from those _things_.”

“We had a few encounters,” Taire reminded him.

“That was one time. We’ve made so many supply runs since then that have gone perfectly. And you know Enjolras—he’s all about perfection.” 

Grantaire couldn’t stop thinking about their first supply run—Combeferre was right, it was the only one they’d ever had trouble on. The memory was brought to the front of his mind, and he couldn’t stop—

# ~

“How safe do you think this is?”

“Not very. But considering Feuilly put down most of the SOBs in this area, I’d say we’re fine.”

Combeferre looked at the cynic questionably. They were scrounging through a pharmacy not far from the house they were staying at. “Did you just call them SOBs?”

“That’s what they are, aren’t they?”

“… good point.” 

Taire stashed a few bottles of alcohol into his bag, and Ferre rolled his eyes. He understood enough not to question him or try to stop him. 

“I have a question.” 

Ferre raised his eyebrows.

“What was Enjolras like when he was younger?”

“Determined. Careless.”

“What do you mean?” 

Combeferre sighed. “Listen, Grantaire… his parents weren’t the most loving in the world. They were wealthy and always busy working and neglected him. When he got into middle school, where I first met him, he was a little reckless and… well, angry. He hated his parents, he hated the world for being so stupid and selfish, and he was determined to change it. His dad was a politician, you see, so he got the brunt of that shit. If we hadn’t been for Courfeyrac, we probably wouldn’t have ever met.

“But, there _was_ Courf. He had come up to me on the first day of sixth grade and shoved a cupcake in my face as a joke. He was really kinda lonely and scared and he channeled that through humor. Enjolras had seen him do it, though, and jumped to my defense. I wasn’t particularly upset; I’d met Courfeyrac once before, and known how… _odd_ he was. Courf apologized, probably because Enj scared him out of his mind, and helped me clean up. So did Enjolras.”

“And that’s how the Golden Trio was born, huh?” Grantaire asked, smiling. “A cupcake?”

“Well, it took some talking, but we all apparently shared a common interest. Courfeyrac had grown up with his dad watching the news all the time, and had grown to dislike the way things were. We were young, of course, and still had a lot of growing up to do, but that was kind of the birth of the ABC, too.”

“Wow.”

“Enjolras never did get over his parents though. It makes me wonder if he—”

“FERRE LOOK OUT!” 

Combeferre swirled around just in time to ram a zombie in the forehead with his dagger. He breathed easy as it fell to the ground, emitting its aberrant black oil from the knife wound.

“—ever thinks about them,” Combeferre continued, turning back to Grantaire like nothing had happened. “Especially now. As far as I know, the last time he spoke to them was the summer before we started university. That’s when he went and lived with Courfeyrac for a few weeks before we all left for Boston. I stayed over a lot, too, since my two best friends were in one household.”

“What happened the last time they spoke? That would’ve been years ago.”

“I’m not sure. Enjolras doesn’t like to talk about it. All I know is that he showed up at Courf’s doorstep asking to stay with him because he’d left his parents.”

Taire shook his head. “How does he pay for college, exactly? If he left his parents?”

“He’s _Enjolras_. He got a full ride, so his tuition was paid for. And he was smart enough to withdraw a lot of the money his parents had put into his savings account before they emptied it. That covers most of his needs. He is completely and totally out of his parents’s care.”

Grantaire didn’t comment, but pulled the bag onto his back. He stared at Ferre for a while before finally saying, “Let’s get back.”

There was a faint noise from the top floor, and the two men tensed. Combeferre tightened his grip on his dagger and breathed deeply, waiting.

R didn’t even glance at Combeferre. He gripped his pickaxe and charged up the stairs. Ferre didn’t question him, but followed him without a word.

They were not expecting what they found.

On the top floor of the pharmacy there were around twenty of the undead gathered, moping about and groaning. At least they had been until Grantaire charged in there and slammed his pickaxe into the nearest one’s eye.

“Twenty to two,” Taire muttered to Ferre as all of the zombies started figuring out what was going on. “Was this a good idea?”

All of the zombies rushed the two living men at once.

Combeferre’s eyes widened. “HELL NO!”

He was right. And it was an even worse idea for them to try to take on all of them by themselves.

But, they did it. And by the time they finished, the bookworm was ready to collapse.

“FUCK YOU, ZOMBIE SHIT!” Grantaire shouted. 

“R, keep your voice down.”

“Why?”

“There’s more of them.”

Grantaire followed his gaze outside the window to see a few dozen more in the opposite direction. They shared a look before silently deciding not to mess with them, and to go back to their temporary home.

# ~

—himself from thinking about it.

“Grantaire?”

He looked up to see Combeferre. 

“Enjolras will be fine. Trust me. Trust _him_.”

Taire hesitated. Yes, he trusted Ferre, and yes, he trusted _Enjolras_ , but it was one of those rare times when trusting his friends wasn’t the issue; it was trusting that those zombies wouldn’t rip his true love to shreds.

“Jesus Christ, you’re going to rip a blood vessel in your hand,” Ferre commented, and Grantaire noticed that he was squeezing his fist tightly. He relaxed his hand. “That wouldn’t be good now, considering Joly just left.”

“I need a glass,” the cynic groaned, pushing up from the bed. Combeferre sighed and crossed his legs, which were perfectly outlined in the skinny jeans he wore. He really was a very sexy man, with his tan, athletic body (even though he spent more than enough time inside reading), his straight, light brown hair that was just long enough to touch his shirt collar and, when his they weren’t broken, the top of his glasses. It was swept to the side. His face was soft, and it was easy to see the wisdom and knowledge in his brown eyes. His white button-down was tucked into to his brown skinny jeans, and he wore loafers. 

“Grantaire,” he called as the painter tried to walk away. “You need to have a little faith. Enjolras won’t give up that easily, surely you know that.”

Taire smiled. “Perhaps.” His sullen, dark eyes scanned over the room, and he suddenly seemed to realize he was in his boxer shorts. He sighed, ran a hand through his thick curls, and went to the closet to pull out a faded tee shirt and black jeans. 

“Watch out for Courfeyrac,” Ferre warned him, jumping off the windowsill and striding past him toward the door. “He’s been extra grumpy today.”   
“Why?”

Combeferre turned to wink at him, murmured, “He always gets grumpy when he doesn’t get what he wants,” and left.

# ~

Joly uncomfortably took his pulse as thunder rippled across the land. His hands were shaking violently, and Feuilly tried to calm him down by placing his own hands on Joly’s, but the hypochondriac yanked his hands away before Feuilly’s skin could touch his.

“Calm down, Jolllly,” Bahorel murmured, using the nickname the ABC had given him many years before.

“We really shouldn’t be out in this storm,” Joly murmured worriedly. “And it’s so filthy and what if we run into zombies and they—”

“Damn, I haven’t seen you like this in months,” Bahorel commented. “Just take a deep breath.”

“Laigle works a certain magic that pulls him out of his hypochondria,” Feuilly told him. “And Musichetta, too, but I can guarantee you it’s been Bossuet that’s kept him at bay for this long. They’ve hardly been separated since… as long as I can remember.”

“Joly, we need you to concentrate, okay?” Enjolras said gently. “The sooner we get through this, the sooner you get back to Bossuet.”

The medic nodded, and continued to walk with the small group they’d made for the supply run. Enjolras led, as usual.

“I can’t wait for your wedding.” Feuilly stuck his hands in his pocket. “You really have a pure kind of love, you know? I can’t believe you managed to convince us that you were just friends for over three years.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying. Even Jehan didn’t realize you were dating until you announced it, and he _lived_ with you,” Bahorel said, grinning. 

“Homophobic parents,” Joly all-but whispered, his tense shoulders relaxing. “Both of our parents, actually. And he’s so much older than me… it wouldn’t have gone over well if we were open about our relationship. We’ve been dating for around five years, started about three years after we met.”

“You’ve known each other for _eight years_? That’s, like, an eternity.”

The hypochondriac managed a small smile. “He’s been my best friend since middle school. He’s two years older than me, and was a… sophomore.”

“How the fuck did an eighth grader and a sophomore become best friends?” Feuilly asked.

“We went to the same church, ironically enough. I was new in town, and Laigle was so nice… he came right up to me and welcomed me. Even back then he always had a smile on his face. He didn’t laugh at me for being the way I was, like most everyone else did. He tolerated my medical obsessiveness, and tried to help me, which is more than most anyone has ever done. Then he met and started dating Musichetta, and… well, she was very beautiful. She has always enchanted me. Bossuet and I were best friends, and somehow, he realized I had eyes for her, and, well… he’s amazingly kind, he is. Musichetta liked us both, and, well…” 

He was obviously uncomfortable, and Bahorel held us his hand. “We got the picture, dude.”

“Bossuet later admitted to me that he didn’t mind either because he liked me. And ‘Chetta saw that, too, I think. She slowly started backing off, and eventually… we realized our feelings for each other. It was hard to admit to, I mean… we both were raised in the church, but—” He cleared his throat. “— _obviously_ we weren’t very faithful. We came to terms with it, though, and… look at us, now. He’s my best friend and fiancé.”

“And Musichetta?”

Joly smiled. “Musichetta is the best woman in the world. She’s amazing, beautiful, and abnormally small. And Bossuet is the best man. I got… lucky, you could say. I love both of them, sure, but… my heart will always completely belong to Bossuet.”

Talking about Laigle completely distracted him from the thunderstorm, and he almost seemed relaxed. None of them had been paying very much attention, and were shaken back into reality when Enjolras pried open the door to the pharmacy.

“Joly, medicine,” he instructed. “Feuilly, Bahorel, focus on food and other supplies. I’ll keep watch.”

# ~

Each of them carrying bags upon bags of supplies, they walked back up to the house. The sun was just starting to set.

Bahorel shushed the others as they got closer to the house. “Do you hear that?”

It wasn’t much strain on their ears to try and listen to the sound of music coming from inside. Enjolras’s eyes glazed over as two distinct voices sang with the sound of a guitar. He jogged up the steps and pushed the door open, dropping the bags at his feet.

Courfeyrac was strumming gently on a black acoustic, Grantaire sat beside him. Combeferre, Jehan, Cosette (Marius hugging her from behind), Éponine, and Bossuet had all gathered to listen to them.

Taire caught Enjolras’s eye and turned his body fully toward him.

“ _…or down below. When you’re too in love to let it go-o. But if you never try, you’ll never kno-ow… Just what you’re worth…_ ”

Courf added in, harmonizing perfectly with the painter. “ _Lights will gui-i-ide… you home… And igni-i-ite, your bones… And I will try… to fix you._ ”

“Need some help with that?” Combeferre asked, starting to pick up the bags Enj had dropped. The angel nodded, but he continued to stare at Grantaire with a roaring intensity. Finally, after Ferre had cleared all the bags and Joly, Bahorel, and Feuilly had come in, Enjolras stepped up to his boyfriend. He wrapped his arms around the cynic and pulled the man into him.

“Come with me.”

Gripping his hand, he drug Grantaire with him toward and into their shared bedroom. 

“Enjy?”

The leader shrugged off his scarlet jacket, folding it over his arm. His fingers grazed the hem of his white polo, but he decided against the erotic action and turned back toward Taire.

“I… Joly, was talking a lot about Laigle today… it just… made me think…” 

“Enjolras, my angel, you’re stalling.”

With that, Enj inhaled and held out his arm with the coat on it. “I’d like you to wear this tomorrow… when we leave…”

R gapped. “Enjolras… I can’t—”

“I realized today that we probably won’t have eight years together, like Joly and Bossuet. We’d probably be lucky if we have another month together—”

“Enjolras—”

“ _No_! I want to cherish every moment I have left with you, and I want to keep you alive as long as I can. This coat has protected me for many years, and… well, I want it to protect you.” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I’ve got you for that.” 

“This is my favorite jacket, Gran—”

The painter laughed and took it from Enj’s outstretched arm. He unconsciously handled it carefully, pulling it over his shoulders. It was too big for his skinny body, but not by much. 

“How do I look?”

The leader smirked. “Sexy.”

“Shut up. Now, here. It’s my turn.”

Taire ran his fingers along his neck and pulled off the leather necklace that had been around his neck for… well, as long as Enjolras could remember.

“It was my mother’s,” the cynic murmured, revealing a silver medallion on the end of the chain that reflected his boyfriend’s blue eyes clearly. “When I was kid, I used to get pushed around a lot. In second grade, when I came home from school in tears with a black eye, Mom pulled me into her arms, put this necklace around my neck, and told me, ‘As long as you keep it on, it’ll protect you. It belonged to your great-great-great grandfather when he lived in France, and he passed it down through _my_ mom’s family. He called it _Sauvegarder_ , which is French for _save_ , or _protect_. Don’t lose it, and it will always keep you safe.’

“If you’re losing your item of protection… I guess I’ll just give you mine. Because I need you to be protected, too.”

Enjolras let R slide the necklace over his head.

“I will honor it.” Enjy snuck a kiss on Grantaire’s lips, but when he pulled back, Taire wrapped his arms around him and held on, making the kiss last much longer. In fact, they never let go of one another until Bahorel finally called them in for dinner.

# ~

Grantaire leaned into Enjolras as the ABC gathered that evening at dusk. They were going to analyze and go through the plan (twice, if Enjolras could manage to convince them), and share a last meal together as a whole. It thoroughly depressed Taire—the dreams of his dead friends and his dead angel haunted him every night. To know that those dreams could become reality in a matter of hours frightened him, and it was clear he was not alone. 

“Drink with me?” he asked Apollo, offering him his wine glass. Surprisingly, Enj reached for it and took a long sip, his lips stained red when he withdrew them from the glass. Seeing their leader drink had an influence on the rest of Les Amis; after a few minutes, each of them had a glass of red wine (even Bahorel, who preferred _any_ drink to wine). 

“The statistics of us getting through this without a single death is less than one percent,” Marius murmured gloomily. “That causality rate is even lower.”

“Yet somehow,” Jehan said, a little too cheerfully, “Grantaire has got us all drinking red wine. That’s a rare occurrence.”

“Indeed it is,” Ferre agreed, trying on a more optimist tone, like Jehan. “The last time I saw Bahorel drink wine, it was on Joly’s birthday. Grantaire had pulled a prank and made sure the only two drinks were wine and brandy, both of which Bahorel hates. I remember he threatened to punch your lights out when he found out, Grantaire.”

“And then he threw a glass in my face,” Taire recalled, chuckling. “I didn’t think I’d ever stop seeing red.”

“You deserved it, man,” Bahorel said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“It was a cruel trick, I’ll admit to that.”

“Oh god, and then someone spiked Bossuet’s drink!” Feuilly snickered, remembering. 

“Who did that, anyway?” Joly questioned as Bossuet blushed. “I need to hurt them.”

Bahorel raised an eyebrow. “Are you _capable_ of hurting someone, Joly?”

“ _P-lease_. I have a working understanding of the entire human body. I could make you bleed out in two seconds with a single, thin prick.”

Bahorel scooted away from him on the couch. 

“Combeferre, where are your glasses?” Jehan asked, noticing that the bookworm wasn’t sporting his spectacles. 

Ferre went red. “They broke.”

“How?”

“I’d rather not… talk about it.”

“He and Courfeyrac were having sex and they managed to break his glasses,” Éponine deduced before taking a sip of her wine.

Courf glanced at Éponine, and then at Ferre. “Well, she’s not wrong. Rolled over and they were just there.”

“It’s not the first time,” Marius muttered. 

Everyone turned to stare at him. 

“What? Remember freshman year when Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre were holding that protest and Enjolras ran into Courfeyrac, who fell onto Combeferre? They snapped his glasses right in half.”

“They weren’t having sex, though,” ‘Ponine pointed out. 

“I didn’t say they had been.”

She stared at him a moment before hissing, “Puppy,” just loud enough for the group to hear. 

“I don’t understand how that was an oblivious action.” Marius frowned as the ABC laughed. “I’m really not as much of a puppy as you guys—”

Cosette silenced him with a swift kiss. 

“Freshmen year was special,” Feuilly said. 

Bahorel nodded, interlacing his hand with the ginger’s, his large hand easily masking Feuilly’s. “It was rememberable.”

“I’m younger than you twats,” Éponine growled. “I hate it so much. My freshman year sucked.”

“That would’ve been our sophomore year?” Joly asked. 

She offered him a quiet “ _Mhmm_.”

Grantaire turned to Enjolras, tuning out the others as they spoke of the past. “You’re being awfully quiet, my angel.”

Enj glanced at his boyfriend before placing a kiss on his forehead. The action made Taire sit up and look at him. 

“What’s wrong, Enjolras?”

He cupped R’s face with his hands and pressed his lips against his boyfriend’s with a strong force and power that was the definition of Enjolras; he was committed and loyal to what he loved, and he would fight to the death to protect them. He loved the people, he loved the Cause, he loved his friends, and he loved Grantaire. For a single moment, Grantaire was absolutely, one-hundred percent sure that Enj loved him wholly and completely, without a single doubt in his head. Taire knew Enjolras, and the passion that the leader put into the kiss was the passion that Enjolras showed for everything he loved and held dearly. 

“I love you, Grantaire.”

R had no verbal response to his lover, but he pulled Enjolras’s lips back against his own and parted his lips to slip his tongue into Enj’s mouth, and his boyfriend smiled.

Jehan silently whispered to Courfeyrac, who sat between him and Combeferre, “OTP.” Courf violently nodded, and Combeferre rolled his eyes. 

Enjolras laughed, but Grantaire didn’t release him. He needed Enjolras more than he needed anything else.

“Get a room,” Éponine groaned. 

Taire ignored her, and at that point Enjy did, too. They were so engaged, so _focused_ solely on each other that, for a small moment in time, nothing else existed. It was a rare occurrence for Enjolras, but Grantaire had spent so much time in that state of mind, he had gotten used to it. 

Pulling away from the kiss and pushing their foreheads together to stare into each other’s eyes was so romantic for both of them, and it helped keep the illusion that nothing else existed. Looking into the eyes of your soul mate is… wow. It makes you feel connected, alive… whole.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen them kiss,” Courfeyrac realized. 

“It’s the first time anyone’s seen them suck face,” Bahorel muttered in response. “Taire uses too much tongue.”

“There’s never such a thing as too much tongue.”

“You say that because you’ve never gotten very much. I mean, you’re dating _Combe_ —”

“Oh shut up, both of you,” Ferre snapped, and, in complete contradiction to his tone, laid his head in Courfeyrac’s lap, throwing his legs over the side of the couch. 

“ _Do you permit it_?”

Grantaire’s whisper-spoken words bounced off of the walls with a type of softness that radiated with power. Enjolras curled his fingers into R’s hair and whispered back, with the same soft/powerful tone his lover had used, “Of course.”

They grinned at each other, ensnared in a moment of pure bliss that was broken when Marius asked, “Am I missing something?”

“Nope,” Courfeyrac answered as the couple came back down to Earth. “They’re just being typical, mystical ExR.”

“Right!” Enjolras snapped to attention, still holding Grantaire. “Let’s go over the plan. Then, we should pray we don’t all die from Bahorel’s cooking.”

# ~

Enjolras squeezed Grantaire’s hand as they watched the stars. 

“I don’t like it.”

Apollo sighed. “I know you don’t. I’m not particularly fond of it either.”

They were both wearing all black to help blend in with the night—not that it would help them much. According to Ferre, the zombies relied more on their sense of smell, and the smell of their living flesh and blood was pungent. 

“I think it’s for the best, though,” Enj stated after a moment of silence. “I will be worrying about you the whole time we’re apart, and I _wish_ I could be with you to protect you, but I wouldn’t focus on the plan. And I don’t think you would either.”

Taire groaned, but hesitated before saying something else. “Somebody’s going to die tonight. I don’t know whether it will be you, or Combeferre, or Courf, or Marius, or Jehan, or Valjean, or Cosette, or Bahorel, or Joly, or Feuilly, or Bossuet, or Éponine, or me, but I know that somebody’s not going to be around in an hour.”

“I do not fear death,” Enjolras murmured, his bright blue eyes reflecting the stars. “Nor do I fear the pain or hardship that is to come. I fear that nothing will change. For the better.”

“None of us fear death, Enj,” Combeferre said, sliding next to him and resting his arms on the railing. “We all knew what joining the ABC would bring, and one of those was execution. All of us knew what we were getting into. Maybe zombies was a little overkill, but we _do not_ fear death. Death is not something to fear—nor is it something to want,” he added, glancing at Grantaire. “It is something to accept when it comes.”

They let his words sink in. 

“It’s time to go.”

Enjolras looked at his best friend. “Are you ready to fly?”

Ferre nodded. 

The leader suppressed a sigh before putting on his game face. “Let us fight.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are several surprises and plot twists revealed in this chapter, as well as some character backstories and major MAJOR events. Also, **MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH(S)** You've been warned. But, it quickly turns back to happiness as the Amis plays a nasty game of Truth Or Dare. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always appreciated, and happy holidays!

Cosette was watching the house from the back window of the car as the black Mercedes sped away from it and their friends.

“Ready?” Courfeyrac asked her from the front seat. 

“As I’ll ever be.” She checked her bag for something. “Shit.”

“What is it?”

Cosette wanted to tell Courfeyrac the whole truth, but instead gave the closest she could. “I ran out of my medicine. I… I really need it.”

Combeferre sighed from the driver’s seat. “I can’t ask you to wait until we get to France. There’s a drug store right up here. Can you get what you need and meet us at the plane? Hot-wire a car to get you there?”

She nodded. Honestly, she hated the idea, but she didn’t have much of a choice. 

Grantaire saw how uncomfortable she was, and pipped up, “I can accompany her, so she doesn’t have to be alone. I’m sure she’d appreciate the help.”

Cosette thanked him silently with her eyes, and he got the message.

Ferre pulled over by the pharmacy and nodded at them as they got out. “You’ve got seven minutes. Good luck. And… don’t die.”

R grinned. “You stay alive, too, buddy.”

He and Cosette scrambled into the pharmacy as the Mercedes pulled away and sped toward the airport. Grantaire followed her as she searched through the medicine bins.

“What’re you looking for?” he asked. “I’ve been here a few times; maybe I can help.”

“Tylenol.”

“Seriously?” He pulled out the nearest bin and tossed her three bottles. “Just Tylenol?”

“I…” She bit her lip. “It’s really important to me right now. You wouldn’t understand.”

He chuckled and smiled. “Is it that time of the month?”

They ran out of the store and found the nearest car, and Taire attempted to hot-wire it. 

“No, it’s not _that time of the month_ ,” she mocked. “I wish it was, it’d be better than this.”

Grantaire frowned. “What could be worse than that? Especially something that wouldn’t need anything stronger than over-the-counter Tylenol?”

“I’m not allowed to take anything stronger. Are you almost finished with that, or do you want me to do it for you?”

He grunted as he made another attempt at starting it. “It won’t start. Must be one of those anti break-in fuckers.”

“We don’t have much time,” she commented. “Think we can run?”

“Probably? But with all those zombies out there, it’ll be difficult.”

She didn’t hesitate, but yanked on his hand and started sprinting. “Let’s go, slow poke. We’re on a time crunch.”

Taire pulled out his knife and held it in his other hand, keeping his grip on Cosette. 

“Why aren’t you allowed to take anything stronger?” he asked her. 

“Can we not get into it, Grantaire?”

“It’s just me. You can tell me anything, even if we’re not that well aquatinted. And I hate to tell you this, but you looked scared senseless. And tired. And sick. What’s up, maybe I can help?”

“Goddammit, Grantaire, I’m pregnant!”

That news should’ve shocked Taire more than it did. The first thing he did was glance at her flat stomach. 

“Does Marius…?”

“He knows. I told him last night at dinner.”

“Damn. And it is _his_ , right?”

“SHUT UP AND RUN, GRANTAIRE!”

He stabbed a zombie in the gut and let go of her hand. “Don’t you dare get hurt—or bitten,” he growled at her. “I’m protecting you and that child with my life.”

She didn’t reply, but kept her shoulder all-but pressed against his as they ran. 

“How far along are you?” R questioned, panting now from fighting, running, and talking to her at the same time. 

“About three months.”

“Three months? And you just told him _yesterday?_ How do you even… Cosette, how long have you known?”

“Long before everything happened with the dead beginning to rise. I thought… I thought I could live. It’s a difficult situat—DUCK!” 

He dodged a zombie and kicked its feet out from under it, sending it to the ground. 

“I’m frightened, Grantaire.”

He hugged her quickly before slicing off the head of a zombie beside her. “Wow. A baby.”

“It’s a burden,” she whispered, getting closer to him as they saw the gate getting closer. “It’ll slow us down and there’s nothing I can do. I have to carry it for it to live or die for it to die. I can’t fight or help or anything because all of you will be like, ‘You’re so fragile,’ and what if you guys try and protect me and die? I can’t let that—”

“Shut up, Cosette.” Grantaire closed his eyes before killing another of the undead. “You’ll be fine. You’ll live if you want to live. If you don’t want to carry this… don’t even call it a baby. A thing. If you don’t want to—”

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll take care of you. Trust me.”

# ~

Joly had a terrible feeling about this mission. As they snuck out into the dark street, he kept wringing his hands. 

“I feel like someone should start singing ‘Heigh Ho,’” Bahorel muttered. 

“ _Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, it's off to work we go._ ” Marius whisper-sang. 

Bahorel, Éponine, Bossuet, and Joly all whistled the tune in unison. 

“Stay focused, men,” Enjolras scolded, and then added, “and woman.”

It wasn’t a terribly long walk to the airport, but the small group faced trouble immediately. So many of the undead were surrounding the airport, almost like it was a five-star zombie resort. Enjolras readjusted his grip on his dagger as they caught sight of what was sure to be their death. 

“Stay as quiet as you can,” the leader instructed, still marching toward the airport at a steady pace. “Don’t shoot unless you have to. Use anything that will make less noise. Fight well, and if you get lost, try your best to make it to Gate 7 in five minutes.”

“Enjolras?”

Apollo glanced back at Joly. 

“We’ll make you proud.”

Enj inhaled deeply, then sharply nodded before returning his gaze forward. 

They traveled for two minutes in pure, absolutely silence before it began. Enjolras took the first one down with his knife by slashing its neck and beheading it. They came slowly, like they were… exhausted. Joly’s brain quickly searched through every possibility for the slowness of the zombies. A normal, healthy human’s exhaustion was caused back lack of sleep, but—as far as he knew—the undead didn’t sleep. The other option was lack of nutrition…

_Oh._

“They haven’t fed in a while, if ever,” Joly hissed, only loud enough for Laigle, who was directly next to him, to hear. 

“Is that good or bad news?” Bossuet asked.

The medic drew a weapon. “Hopefully good, but the answer is unclear.”

“ _Joly_!”

Valjean’s almost-silent warning gave Joly enough time to spin around and stab a zombie in the eye. Black oil spurted back onto his face and torso. 

“Shit,” Marius muttered when he turned around. Behind them, bodies were rising from the ground and fixing their gazes on the small group. They didn’t attack. 

“Enjolras? Any ideas?” ‘Ponine growled. 

Before the leader got a chance to answer, there was a honk and a shout, “ON YOUR LEFT!” Jehan grinned from the driver’s seat of a black Corvette as he skidded to a stop next to the group. “Get in, losers. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

“ _Damn_ ,” Bahorel gapped as he slid into the backseat of the car. “That’s what I call driving.”

One of the zombies started to register sound and smell, and slowly the whole herd began to inch toward them, becoming faster with each step. 

Just before Marius, who was the last in the car, could get his door closed, a zombie snagged his jacket sleeve and started to snap its teeth at him, but was pushed off of the boy by Valjean. Jehan didn’t wait for the Puppy’s door to close to drive off. 

“Are you bit, Marius?” Enjolras demanded. 

“No,” he murmured, obviously scared out of his skull. 

“Valjean?”

The old man didn’t comment, but looked up to meet Enj’s eyes. On the back of his palm was a small tear in his flesh, obviously made by teeth. They stared at each other for a minute, and as time went on Jean Valjean looked more and more tired, weak, and… dead. 

“I guess this is where I drop out, boys. It was an honor to work with you. It’s not your fault,” he assured Marius at the Puppy’s expression, “I am older. You have a life to live.”

“Are you going to tell me to protect Cosette?”

Valjean scoffed. “If there’s anything I know about Cosette, it’s that she doesn’t need protecting. All I’m asking you do for me is tell her I love her very much and that I’m sorry.” He paused and looked each one of them dead in the eye before continuing. “I’m going to fight them off so you all can get into the plane. It doesn’t matter now if I get bitten, or, god forbid, eaten. Just as long as you are safe.”

“We’re approaching the gate,” Jehan told them. “The others should already be there, if they didn't encounter anything like we did.”

“Either way, that means that more of the zombies will be gathered around there, because I’m sure they stirred those fuckers up,” Bahorel grunted. “This won’t be easy.”

“Move quickly and pray you can outrun them,” Enjolras told him, his gaze focused ahead. 

The gate (and the airplane they were to use) was in clear sight now. Bahorel was right; there were many of the undead around the airplane, snapping their jaws and tearing at the airplane door, trying to get inside. That meant the others were in there. Or some of them, anyway.

“I’m sorry, boys,” Valjean said, addressing Joly and Bossuet. “Looks like I won’t be marrying you. I should’ve done it before we left.”

Joly didn’t respond, just glanced down and sighed. Laigle shook his head. 

“Do it now.”

Jehan was incredibly romantic and practical, and Enjolras didn’t expect any less of him than to make that suggestion, even though they were in the midst of battle and had a nearly impossible task ahead of them. 

Enjolras protested, “There’s no ti—”

“Please, Mr. Valjean,” Jean continued, ignoring Enj. “Look at those dead things out there and think. By marrying them now, you’ll bring a little humanity back into this world that, currently, is lacking in it.”

Valjean considered it for a moment. 

“Quickly. We’re nearly there.”

“We are gathered here in the presence of witnesses for the purpose of uniting in matrimony Joly and Bossuet—”

“No time for the full vows, Valjean,” Enj told him, “just get to the good stuff!”

“Bossuet, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” Valjean rushed. 

A shiver of happiness ran down Joly’s spine as Valjean said those words. He grabbed his fiancé’s hands and looked into his eyes. 

Laigle nodded, and then remembered to say, “I do.”

“Joly,” the old man continued, still quickly. “Do you take Laigle to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Firmly and full of pride and passion, Joly declared, “I do.”

The car jolted to a stop, and Enjolras shouted, “Move!”

Jumping out of the car and beginning to fight the undead away, getting his skin torn at and ripped in the process, Valjean screamed out, “By virtue of the authority vested in me by the State of Massachusetts, I now pronounce you spouses for life. You may now kiss your partner!”

Joly whispered to Bossuet, “Later,” before they both sprinted like hell after Enjolras, Bahorel, Jehan, Éponine, and Marius. The medic also shouted a “Thank you” to Valjean and silently whispered peace for him in his death. 

“Wait!”

Everyone had made it into the 747 except Marius, who heard his girlfriend’s plea and stopped to turn to face her. She and Grantaire were running quickly toward the plane from the tail end, Taire slicing any zombie that came close to either of them. 

“Cosette!”

“MARIUS, DON'T STOP!”

Grantaire’s call came too late, for by the time it hit Marius’s ears and registered in his brain, a zombie had jumped on top of him and ripped his throat out. His death was instantaneous, and he fell backward as the zombie began feasting on his body. 

“ _NO_!”

R tugged on the screaming Cosette’s hand and sprinted toward the airplane at full speed, pulling her with him, still managing to fight off any zombies that came within their vicinity. Before he stepped into the door of the plane, he pulled out his handgun and shot both Marius and the zombie that killed him in their heads. 

Courfeyrac slammed the metal door shut behind them and Taire set Cosette down in the first row isle seat. R screamed into the cockpit for Combeferre to “get this baby up!” 

The rest of the ABC was scattered throughout the airplane, and he considered going up to the cockpit where Enjolras, Combeferre, and now Courf were, but he did the morally correct thing and sat down next to Cosette. 

“Where’s my papa?” she asked, looking at Jehan. He’d moved so he was close to her upon seeing her weep. 

“Cosette…”

“No. _No_.”

“I’m sorry. He… He told us to tell you he loves you and is sorry.”

Jehan nodded once, closed his eyes, and moved away from her so she could think as the plane started to move, and the banging of the zombies began to die down. 

Grantaire and Cosette had never interacted very much, but he felt the need to place his hand on her shoulder. Her blonde hair was swept in her face, and tears were streaming down her cheeks; she had lost her boyfriend and father in the same day—in the same hour. Grantaire had spent many nights thinking about Enjolras dying. Then Taire imagined someone else close to him dying on the same day, like Courfeyrac or Combeferre. 

“You okay?”

She didn’t register that he was there at first. Finally, she turned her head to see the very tip of his curls. “No.”

“I understand. Death is… interesting.”

“Yeah.”

“I lost both of my parents when I was younger, so I kinda understand. Still… you and your dad were closer than I was to either of my parents. And what you and Marius had…”

“Grantaire, please. I appreciate what you’re saying, but I’m not really in the mood.”

He carefully removed his hands and as the plane began to pick up speed. Taire buckled his seat belt and then hers, because she was in no state to do it herself. They sat in silence, listening to the engine of the plane. 

“Do you still want to…?”

“I have to,” she replied to his vague question. “For Marius and for Papa. He… Marius wanted this, I think. And he would never forgive me if I tried to get rid of it.”

“That’s fine. We’ll help you, then. Joly will know what to do and how to take care of you.”

“Thanks, Grantaire.”

He flashed her a smile. “I’m just trying to help. Okay, I know this is weird, but… can I…?”

She pulled up her shirt slightly and nodded. She was still crying, and was no where near happy, but obliged to try and get her mind away from her dead boyfriend and father. Her clothing had covered up her baby bump, but there definitely was one. Taire hesitantly placed his hand on her abdomen.

“Damn. There’s a living person in there.”

“Have you never seen a pregnant woman, R?” she asked, watching his shaking hands caress her stomach. 

“No. I think my sister has a kid, but… I left before she even got married, much less got pregnant. I wasn’t around for that.”

“Well, hey, you can be Uncle R to this baby.”

His entire face lit up at the title, and his eyes burned with happiness. “Really?”

“Really. Uncle E and Uncle R.”

The plane lifted off and was a bit bumpy going up, but it got there eventually. They endured it silently, Taire still rubbing her stomach. 

“That kid’s growing up in a fucked up world,” he said as they airplane grew steady in the air. 

“New rule,” Cosette murmured, pushing Grantaire’s hand off of her gently. “No swearing with your hands on the baby. Little ears.”

“Right, right. Just… wow. A baby in an apocalypse.”

“It’s that much more encouragement to stop this.”

Taire nodded. “You’re right. Gotta give this kid a good world—a better one than we’ve ever had.”

“Aww!”

They both turned their heads to see Jehan sitting behind them. 

“There’s gonna be a baby?”

“God, Jehan, keep your voice down,” Grantaire scolded. 

“No, it’s alright,” Cosette corrected him. “It’s going to be noticeable soon. Why not?”

“We’re gonna have a baby puppy!” Feuilly exclaimed from next to Jehan.

“A _baby_!” Courf gapped, popping up next to them (although he was supposed to be in the cockpit, helping Combeferre, a that theory which was ruined when Ferre was pulled up by Courfeyrac). “A little baby with little handsies and feetsies and Marius’s puppiness and—”

“Courfeyrac.” R frowned. “Not the time.”

His face went blank, before realization dawned on him. 

“No. No no no no fucking no.”

Cosette closed her eyes and leaned into Grantaire, who happened to be the closest shoulder. 

“He’s dead,” Jehan whispered. 

“Is he the only one we lost?” 

Grantaire made a slashing motion on his throat. 

“My papa,” Cosette breathed with melancholy hinting in her voice. 

“Damn,” Enjolras murmured, coming up the aisle to them. “I’m so sorry, Cosette. We’ll all miss them both.”

She sighed. “May I sleep? It’s going to be a long plane ride and I just… I don’t want to think about Marius or Papa or this baby or anything.”

Enjolras looked mildly shocked at the word “baby,” but Grantaire nodded and left her alone, pulling a blanket out from the overhead compartment for her. The others followed him toward the back of the plane so she could sleep. Joly and Bossuet were in the back row of the Economy seats, Bahorel was snoring from the front row, and Éponine was staring out the window next to him. 

“Honestly?” Courfeyrac said, relaxing in a chair between Enj and Combeferre. “That's a lot less death than I anticipated. Yeah, I’m sad and pissed off about them dying, and I feel so bad for Cosette for losing them _both_ and then having a baby on top of it. But I’m glad everyone else is okay.”

“Who is steering the airplane, Combeferre?” Feuilly asked, laying his head in Bahorel’s lap. The other man didn’t wake. 

“Auto-pilot. I set the course. It should steer itself for awhile.”

Enjolras didn’t seem to be paying attention to the conversation. He was staring right at Grantaire, who had his head in hands. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras murmured, and the cynic lifted his head. “Would you let me show you the cockpit? It’s really quite interesting.”

His eyes showed how exhausted he was, but he managed a soft, sincere smile at seeing his boyfriend’s worried expression. “Yeah, sure.”

Enj stood, took Taire by the hand, and led him to the front of the plane. Just before they got out of earshot, Bahorel muttered, “Yeah, he’ll show R _his_ cockpit.”

Grantaire stifled a laugh as Apollo shut the door, blocking out the other voices. He turned to his lover immediately and asked, “How are you?”

The painter shrugged. “You should be asking Cos—”

“I’m not asking Cosette, I’m asking you. How are _you_ , Grantaire?”

Taire considered his question for a moment before replying, “You’re worried about me because you think… you think I cut myself.”

“Did you?”

“No. I… I’m trying to stop, y’know? Because you told me… it hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you, Enjy. Ever. If… If hurting myself hurts you, I won’t do it. Even if I deserve—”

“You haven’t done anything to deserve it. You witnessed a death. There’s nothing you could’ve done for Marius, or when Éponine tried to… it’s not your fault. Don’t punish yourself for it.”

Grantaire nodded, but remained silent. 

“I am so deeply in love with my boyfriend. I have never regretted being with him, either. My boyfriend… my true love… he’s is so intelligent, so kind…”

Out of habit, Taire thought, _Shit, he’s got a boyfriend._

“…a wonderful artist, an absolute sweetheart—even if he can be terribly cynical sometimes—and, not to mention, he’s very, very hot.”

_Oh wait…_

Enjolras was on him before he could process another thought. R moaned into their kiss, the kiss he’d been waiting for since he left Enj that morning. 

“No sex!” they heard Éponine shout. “Especially in there!”

“Damn,” Grantaire groaned. “I was really looking forward to that. I guess with all this talk of a baby I’m feeling very… horny.”

“A baby and a wedding,” Apollo muttered. 

“Joly and Bossuet?”

“It was Valjean’s final breath. Jehan talked him into it.”

“I figured. About Jehan, not… you know.”

Enjolras put his head on R’s shoulder and closed his eyes, silencing Grantaire for a minute.

“Do you think we’ll actually make it through this? Or have any chance of destroying this?”

“We are mere humans—only eleven of us now—fighting against the supernatural,” Enj responded, not opening his eyes. “Do I think we can make it through this? Do I think we can win this battle? Of course I do. Humans can be the greatest, purist things when they want to be. We can cleanse the Earth of destruction, whether we caused it or not. The Earth is our home, and we can save it.”

Grantaire sighed. 

“And, when a man—or woman, for that matter—is given a reason, he develops determination,” Enjolras said, his hands sliding down Taire’s back. “If, say, a chance to save the world and make it a better place is put up for grabs, he takes it. Or the idea of a happy, quiet life with the person he loves… he takes it.”

“Enjolras, you and I both know you’ll never have a quiet life.”

“I meant a life without the fucking undead. It’s been—what, a little less than two weeks? I’m sick of them.”

“I understand.”

The leader was quiet, pulling Grantaire down on the floor of the cockpit and leaning into him. Abruptly, he said, “I wish we could’ve brought your paintings. They were so beautiful.”

Grantaire was silent for a moment, thinking about the—in Enj’s opinion—beautiful paintings of Enjolras and the Musain he’d painted back at the mansion. Another question was racing through his mind, and, finally, he worked up the courage to ask it. “What happened at your home? When you were a kid, I mean. Combeferre was telling me a little bit about your childhood and your parents…”

Enj kept his lips pressed together tightly as his boyfriend stammered on. 

“You must think about them now, right? Since the apocalypse and… I mean, no matter how much you hated or resented them, you have to at least have a thought to spare for them—”

“My parents,” Enjolras started slowly, ceasing R’s babbling, “were horrible, greedy people who only cared about themselves. They were hypocrites with too much money and only seeking more; they didn’t care who they hurt and/or ruined to get it.”

“They sound like the government.”

Taire expected a laugh from his lover, but only got a deeper scowl. “My dad practically _was_ the government, actually. He had worked his way up in politics, and by the time I graduated from high school, he was one of the most powerful men on he planet. He offered so many times to simply write to Harvard or Princeton or Yale just to get me accepted. He possessed _that_ much power and authority.

“My parents were so proud of the life they’d made. They were swimming in money, my mom looked like a painted whore (which was, apparently, a look she enjoyed), they owned a huge house with everything you could imagine in it, had a perfect, beautiful son who brought girls to the door _screaming_ his name, they had the power to fucking _talk_ to an Ivy League school _just_ to get me accepted. They were greedy, self-centered bastards who only cared about the way society perceived them. They never cared about me, not truly. They only thought I looked good for their social status. And when I told my father—after coming home with a black eye and a broken nose for getting into a political argument—that I wanted to fix this broken world and go against his entire career, he locked me in the basement to try and ‘get the evil thoughts out of my head.’ And then… he let me out after days, and neither of us dared to bring it up again for two years. 

“It was the summer after I graduated. He’d made me apply to all of the Ivy Leagues, and I… I just didn’t have a desire to go to any of them. I’d only gotten accepted because my ‘daddy’ had sent in a letter of recommendation. Behind his back, I had also applied to state schools and I’d gotten in; not because of my status, but because of my GPA and my application. They wanted _me_ for _me_. I’d already decided I was going to attend the University of Massachusetts in Boston with my two best friends—of whom my parents hated—Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Dad thought I was going to Duke, and I knew I’d have to tell him eventually…

“Then, my father… tried to set me up on a date. I came home from studying at Courf’s one night and I… I smelt dinner. I knew there was no way in _hell_ it was my mom who had cooked, but I still continued to walk into the sitting room—where they were waiting for me. Mom had hired a chef for the night. She and Dad were sitting on the couch, and there was a pretty girl in a revealing dress, and I… I knew her. She was the daughter of a senator that worked with my dad. I just… something inside me broke. I knew for a fact in that moment that Father didn’t care about me, and he only tried to set me up with an important, pretty girl to increase his social status. I went through with the dinner out of respect for her. She was really nice, but she was just like my parents: greedy and self-entered. Besides, she… wasn’t my type.

“After she left, I started yelling at my parents. At first, they couldn’t understand why. I shouted so many things at them, releasing all the anger I’d built up for so many years. I yelled at them for the horrible things they’d done to society, how they just bathed in all that money when so many people needed it more, how they could be so fucking terrible. I told them I wasn’t going to Duke, that I was going to UMass with my two best friends and we were going to start protesting and trying to fix the fucking world that they had a part in breaking. I… I came out as gay to them. I told them so many things, and they just sat there and absorbed it. 

“Finally, my dad stood up, looked me straight in the eyes, and said ‘You are a disgrace, Enjolras. You are not my son.’

“I just nodded, said, ‘I’ve _never_ been your son,’ went upstairs to my room, packed the stuff I needed, climbed out the window, and never, _ever_ went back. I withdrew a ton of money from my dad’s bank account and headed to Courfeyrac’s. His mom has always been kind to me. I stayed with him the rest of the summer before we moved and then bought my own place in Boston.”

Grantaire was absolutely, completely silent. Enjolras closed his eyes. 

“So, no,” he concluded. “No, I don’t think about them, and I don’t miss them. I haven’t spoken to either of them in three years, and I’ve had no desire to.” He paused. “Alright. It’s your turn. Time for your backstory.”

R crinkled his nose. “I don’t remember that being part of the deal.”

“It wasn’t.” Apollo smiled. “But you’re still going to tell me. You owe me, and you know it.”

Grantaire hesitated. “It’s not a happy story.”

“Was mine?”

“…good point.” He inhaled deeply. “My parents died in a car accident. Plain and simple.”

“When?”

“Just before I went into the military. Actually, that’s why I became a Marine. I was sixteen when I went into service, and my sister, Marcelle, was seventeen. The police claimed it was a total accident, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it wasn’t. Mom had been driving, and she had always been a little suicidal.” The word rolled off his tongue like it was any other word, like it meant absolutely nothing at all to him. Most people would stammer or trip over the word, but he’d said it so many times it had become natural for him. “They came to our house that night, and told Mar about what had happened. I was out doing drugs or some shit like that. 

“Marcelle told me when I got home. It didn’t really register in my brain, but… I got pissed. I didn’t know another way to respond. I was sixteen, I mean, I was already emotional broken, I was probably on crack at the time, and it just didn’t settle in my brain that they were fucking _dead_. I thought they were just on vacation or something. I didn’t want to be with Marcelle, though, and so the next day, by the time I had woken up and was in my right mind again, I still didn’t realize they were gone; I just knew something was wrong. Mar had left, whether just for the day or forever, I’ll never know. I got out of the house and not long after went into the military.”

Enjolras waited. 

“What?”

“That’s not the end of the story, Grantaire. Keep going.”

Taire huffed. “I served for three years before I was dishonorably discharged, although many people I knew like to disagree. They said what I did was heroic, and I deserved accolades, not… whatever. I don’t necessarily agree with them.”

“Agree to disagree,” Enj said. “Now tell me what happened.”

“You’re a stubborn ass, you know,” Grantaire protested, but continued nonetheless. “I pulled some kid out of the way of a gunshot, got myself shot in the process, and ended up giving away our location during battle. It wasn’t a pretty picture, in the end. They decided the best thing to do was dishonorable discharge. It’d get me out of the way without upsetting _someone_ , and I was hurt, anyway. So they sent me home. 

“I decided to apply for University, and somehow I got stuck at UMass. They gave me a chance, most other places didn’t.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. 

“Oh c’mon, you know what happens next!”

“Just tell me.”

“I use— _used_ —the money I’d gotten from the service to get me through, and I struggled day by day to keep by. Then Courfeyrac saw one of my fucking pieces in a show, and came up to me. He was nice enough, and I didn’t know anyone else there, so we kinda became friends. He invited me to one of the ABC’s meetings—which had been going on for around a year, then; it would’ve been the spring semester of your sophomore year—and I saw you and some part of me kicked myself into believing that I might have a chance with you. And some of you fuckers were pretty awesome, so I stuck around, even if I didn’t really care about ‘The Cause.’ I liked… staring at you.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And,” Enjolras murmured, smiling, “you’re now the survivor of the apocalypse, have a boyfriend who loves you very much, and have some awesome ass friends. You can’t deny any of those facts.”

Grantaire nodded. “You’re right—I can’t.”

Enjy kissed the nape of his neck. 

“Keep me cradled in your arms forever.”

“Okay.”

Taire snuggled up in his lover’s arms, and both of them thought only about the present, and not about the fact that sometime—whenever that time came—they would have to unravel themselves and rejoin the fight. They enjoyed their blissful moments with each other as they fell asleep.

# ~

“Cosette?” 

Although she’d claimed to be sleeping, when Ferre walked into the first class cabin, he heard her sniffling. She didn’t lift her head upon his entry.

“I’m… I’m really not in the mood, Combeferre. Would you leave me?”

He didn’t move. “There’s something important I must tell you about your father. He asked me… never to tell you, long ago, but I think… now that he’s gone…” 

_It’ll break her heart_ , he remembered Valjean saying.

She sat up, her eyes red from crying. He had never seen her like this before. 

“Tell me, then. Tell me what Papa never wished for me to know.” Her voice was deadly calm. “Is it about his past? How he came to adopt me?”

“Cosette—”

“You didn’t think I got curious? I grew up without a mom, and I remember the day Papa saved me from the Thérnardier’s care—yeah, they were my foster parents before Valjean took me in. That’s _all_ I can remember of my childhood. So, when I was in… oh, eighth grade, I did some research…” 

“Valjean has done no wrong,” Combeferre whispered. “He is an innocent man.”

She sighed softly. “I have never once thought wrong of my father. And he _is_ my father. Maybe not biologically, but… he’s the one who gave me a father’s love. And that’s what matters.”

“And of your real parents?”

“Fantine, my mother, died while trying to take care of me. She’s gone, and my dad—my _biological dad_ , mind you—left her when I was a baby. I have no family left, now… not even my lover.” 

“You have us.” Courfeyrac emerged from behind the curtain that separated first and second class. “Sorry for eavesdropping, but I just happened to pick up a little of your conversation and I got hooked.” He turned to Cosette. “You have a family, because you have us: Les Amis de l’ABC. Do you know why we’re named that?” 

“Doesn’t it mean _The Friends of the ABC_ in French?”

“Yes. Yes it does.” He offered her a smile. “But the thing is, we’re not just _friends_. We’re family. You may have lost your biological parents, and Valjean, and Marius… but you’ve got us, and that little baby. _We’re_ your family, too.” 

She wiped away a tear. “Thanks, Courfeyrac.”

Combeferre hugged her from one side, and Courfeyrac from the other. Ferre started to hum softly.

“You know what I miss?” 

Ferre raised his eyebrows at his boyfriend. “What?”

“First year, when we started the ABC. God, we were such dumbasses; we had no clue what we were doing and the severity of what we were dealing with.”

“We still have no idea what we’re doing _and_ what we’re dealing with, Courf.”

“Point taken.” 

“I’m sad I only had these few months to spend with you,” Cosette murmured, her eyes weepy. “Les Amis has always impressed me… in fact, it was your constant support of the LGBT community that gave me the courage to come out to Papa.”

“I _knew_ you had a thing for Éponine!” Bahorel exclaimed, barreling through the curtain. “You may have been in love with Marius, pretty girl, but I _swear_ I’ve caught you staring at her ass more than once.” 

Éponine snorted, following him into first class. “Of course. I thought everyone stared at _this_ ; my ass saves lives.”

“Obviously you’ve never seen Ferre’s—”

“Shut up, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre muttered, his face quickly growing red.

There was a pause in the conversation due to laughter, but ‘Ponine picked it back up again.

“You know what we should do? Spin the Bottle— _Thérdardier style_.” 

Bahorel excitedly punched the air at the same time Combeferre squeaked in protest.

“Oh c’mon, Ferre, don’t be a buzzkill.” 

Éponine sneered. “Yeah, _Ferre._ Besides, Gavroche and I invented the style together, so it’s totally family-friendly.”

“Family-friendly my ass. Gavroche is—and always has been—as bad as you. Actually, he’s worse than you, Bahorel, and Grantaire _combined_. Am I risking a double Thérnardier slam? Hell no.”

“One round,” Bahorel begged. “Please?”

At Courfeyrac’s puppy dog eyes, the bookworm immediately sighed and gave in. Courf grinned. 

“And so it begins.”

# ~

The description of the “Thérnardier” style of Spin the Bottle, especially the way the small group played it, was incredibly interesting. Bahorel dragged a sleepy, frumpy Feuilly in and sat him down next to him. The ginger instantly leaned into his big shoulder and fell back asleep.

Combeferre knew better than to disturb Enjoltaire and the newlyweds, but he did manage to get Jehan (surprisingly) to join them.

“Alrighty.” Éponine rubbed her hands together. “The Thérnardier style is simple: it’s like Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle combined.” She set the wine bottle in the middle of the circle they’d made in the aisle. “Someone spins the bottle, and asks the person it lands on ‘Truth or Dare?’ Said person picks, and if they can’t answer the truth they must remove one item of clothing—socks, shoes, belts, beanies, and any other minor items don’t count, by the way. If they can’t complete the dare, they must remove one item of clothing _and_ kiss the person who asked.”

“Sounds like something Gavroche would come up with,” Courfeyrac whispered.

She ignored him. “Who’s first?”  

“You didn’t think about starting without us, did you?” 

Grantaire and Enjolras emerged into First Class, Enjolras very grumpy that “his ass of a boyfriend dragged him to play a silly game,” as he put it. 

“Calm down, revolution pants,” Bahorel groaned. He scooted closer to Feuilly to make room. “Sit and spin, you’re up first.”

Enjolras muttered a curse, but Grantaire pulled him into his lap on the floor. Bahorel was about to protest that it wouldn’t work, but R shifted Enj to his left side to prove him wrong. 

“Spin, Enjy.”

Shooting a glare at his lover, Enjolras spun the wine bottle hard. When it stopped, the tip pointed directly at Grantaire.

The leader perked up a bit. “Truth or Dare?”

“I’m not sure whether to trust you or not, so… dare.” 

The blond smiled mischievously. “I dare you to drink damson gin.”

“That’s not fair, you _know_ I hate that shit! Besides, we don’t have any.”  
   
Éponine smirked. “Rules are rules, dude. Are you forfeiting the dare?” 

Ignoring the very prominent grin of his lover, Taire pulled off his black tee shirt. Enjolras’s hand felt warm on his rib cage when Apollo put it there, pulling him into a kiss.

“Screw you,” R whispered into the kiss, but smiled as he pulled back and begrudgingly spun the bottle. “Jehan: truth or dare?”

Straightening his flower crown, the poet answered in a strong voice: “Truth. Not because I don’t trust you, Grantaire, I just… don’t trust you.”

The cynic shrugged. “I understand. Now… I don’t believe I ever heard you say if you were a virgin or not. According to Bahorel, you were oddly silent during that game.”

Prouvaire’s soft smile faded. 

“Who’d you lose it to, if you _did_ lose it?” 

Jehan pursed his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I… I had a partner. She was… stunning. Neither of us were particularly aroused by sex, and… well, I _did_ love her. She was my everything. But something changed. I knew she was becoming… oh fuck it, she was _horny._ I didn’t want to lose her to some douchebucket who wouldn’t treat her right, so I fought for her. It didn’t matter. She left me within a week of me giving myself to her.” 

It was completely silent except for the soft rocking of the plane.

“When was that?” Cosette asked, scooting closer to him. 

“My senior year of high school.”

She kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry, Jehan.”

“I’m over it now,” he said, making an attempt at smiling. “And I don’t have to remove any clothing!” His thin fingers slipped over the bottle gently and he spun it.

Bahorel spread his arms when the bottle pointed directly at him, waking Feuilly. He scowled sleepily before laying his head in Bahorel’s lap.

“Dare me, Prouvaire.”

Jehan’s gaze lingered on the wine bottle, but he finally spoke, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “Seven minutes in heaven. With Enjolras.” 

The room went silent. Grantaire was glaring at the poet and Enjolras’s mouth was open in disdain. Bahorel glanced nervously at R, then at Feuilly, then back at Jehan.

“You’re eviler than I ever gave you credit for,” Bahorel murmured, gently sliding Feuilly off of him and standing. “Enj?”

“I swear to all things holy I’m going to murder you both,” the painter hissed, tightening his already-tight grip on his boyfriend.

“If Enjolras refuses to do it, you owe Jehan a piece of clothing and a lip lock,” Éponine stated very matter-of-factly.

Enjy beamed and leaned into Grantaire’s embrace. “Sorry Bahorel, Taire means too much to me.”

“Fuck you.” Bahorel tore off his shirt and gave Jehan a quick peck on the lips before slouching back beside the ginger. “Please, please, _please_ , let it be someone good.” He whispered a quick “thank you” as the bottle pointed at—

“Courfeyrac. Dare or dare?” 

The fluffy-haired man chuckled, leaning in toward Bahorel. “Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice, now does it? But, if I absolutely _had_ to decide, I’d say… dare.”

“I’ve been waiting for this my entire life for this—like, I can’t even start to explain how long I’ve been waiting for us to play a game of Truth or Dare so I could dare you to do this _very epic_ —”

“Spit it out,” Feuilly muttered—not opening his eyes—annoyed with his boyfriend’s rambling. 

Bahorel grinned. “I dare you to straighten your hair.” 

Courf’s smile didn’t waver. “And I assume you have a flat iron?”

“Of course. I’ve kept it in my backpack since I met you just in case.”

“Ooooh, Courfeyrac, can I do it?” Cosette pleaded.

He continued to smile as Bahorel tossed him the flat iron. “Be my guest. You may find it difficult, though; I have curls of steel.” 

Cosette stood up and led Courfeyrac into the bathroom, the flat iron in hand.

“Spin for me, sexy!” he shouted, still in ear shot. 

Combeferre easily spun the bottle, and it pointed—with a groan from Grantaire—at the cynic himself.

“I’m assuming that R will be my first victim,” Courf yelled. “Truth or dare?”

“Absolutely fucking truth,” Taire practically moaned. “I’ll fucking answer anything.”

Courfeyrac stuck his head out of the bathroom for just a second to grin at the painter. “Tell us, in detail, what sex with Enjolras is like.”

Before he finished, Grantaire, already had his jeans off. He was grumbling curses at Courfeyrac the whole time.

Enjolras didn’t seem to mind his boyfriend’s nakedness.

“ _Éponine_ ,” R snarled, turning the bottle by force to point at the only female present. “Truth or Dare?”

“Well, my dear R, I’m going to have to say _dare._ ” 

“That’s perfectly fine with me. Strip Combeferre down to his underwear and sit on his lap for the rest of the game.”

Combeferre’s face went a very bright shade of red, but ‘Ponine had a strut to her step as she walked over to the bookworm. “Stand up.”

He obeyed out of sheer fear. She began to unbutton his shirt, and pushed it off of his shoulders. His hands were trembling as she pushed his kakis off of him, leaving him only in a pair of briefs. She pushed him back down and sat promptly on his lap.

“Stop looking so smug, Éponine,” he commented as she stroked his face. 

“Two naked boys, let’s make more!” she exclaimed, and spun the bottle.

# ~

The game ended two hours later, when nearly all of them were falling asleep. Cosette had straightened Courfeyrac’s hair to near perfection, but by the end it was starting to curl up again. Grantaire had passed out in Enjolras’s lap, and Feuilly had to be carried back to second class by Bahorel. Half of them were without clothes, and the ones who’d escaped it were very smug walking back to their respected sleeping spots.

“Glad we decided not to do it?” Joly asked his husband.

“I feel like Truth or Dare with them gets too competitive,” Bossuet responded, sighing. He and Joly were wrapped in a very erotic position.

The medic snorted. “That’s because it does. Especially now that a lot of them are dating… God, I’m glad we sat out. Besides…” He kissed Laigle. “I couldn’t do that in front of them. Easily, anyway.”

“Look, Jolllly, the sun is setting.”

“So it is.” Joly smiled softly and leaned into his newly-wedded husband. “So it is.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some interesting OCs are introduced in this chapter, as well as an old fandom-favorite. Some news involving the zombies comes into play, Jehan makes a new friend, and Éponine is courted by a old lover.

Enjolras stood closest to the door, a thin, brown hoodie covering his thick shoulders. It was unusual attire for him, even during the apocalypse. Everyday he had worn one of the two coats he’d brought with him, and a polo shirt underneath, usually being either black, white, or red. It was like Casual Friday for him, where he only wore a zip-up and a white tee shirt, both of which he’d borrowed from Bahorel. Enjolras had put on quite a bit of muscle weight since the end of the world, and his usual clothing had become more fitted on him. Grantaire found the tight fabric hot. Enj was just annoyed by it. Also, his favorite jacket was draped over Taire’s thinner frame.

“What’s the word?”

Just as Combeferre was about to reply, Feuilly, who was standing by the window, murmured, “It’s fucking raining.”

Sure enough, when the leader pulled back the window covering, the droplets became louder and visible to the ABC. Enjolras sighed before saying, “No need to worry. It’s only a little fall of rain; it can’t hurt us.”

Éponine rolled her eyes before saying, “Right. It’ll just add onto the trouble we’re about the face. Weather and zombies.”

Jehan exhaled before whispered, “French weather is so depressing.”

“C’mon, guys, _focus_!” Courfeyrac snapped, his sharp voice pulling everyone to attention. “We’ve got a job to do, and I’d prefer it if all of us came out of it alive. That’s only going to happen if we’re totally and completely focused.”

Ferre smiled at his boyfriend’s words, and joined him and Enj at the door of the 747. Just as Enjolras’s hand grazed the door handle, three knocks came from the other side.

The shock was clear in all three of the Golden Trio’s expressions. Then again: three quick knocks, just like the first time. An amused, muffled voice ripped through the silence from the other side. “Yo, pansy-goats! We know you’re in there! No use pretending you’re not!”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Who are you?”

“Who’re you?” the female voice replied with a condescending tone. 

There was another voice that spoke softly, so gentle that Les Amis couldn’t distinguish any of her—definitely a female voice—words. Finally, the first voice spoke again. “You’re right, Margot. It’s the end of the goddamn world. Chances are, you guys are some of the dominate humans. Do you have any inferiors or supernaturals with you?”

“You mean zombies?” Bahorel blurted out. Enjolras shot him a glare. 

“I mean the fucking undead, doesn’t matter what you call them. Do you have any aboard that airplane?”

Enj thought for a moment before responding with the truth. The girl paused before asking, “Mind if we come in? It’s a little wet out here.”

Of course, Enjolras hesitated. With one look at Grantaire, he groaned and opened the door. 

There were four of them, their leader blocking the features of the other three. She had thick, dark, hair that was dripping wet from the rain, and her eyes—so dark it looked like you were staring into the very pits of hell—furiously bored into Enjolras’s, daring him silently to comment on her appearance. 

She was definitely something to look at. She wore a mid-thigh, sleeveless dress that was darker than the night sky behind her. Peplums decorated her waist, and she wore red stilettos on her feet. Her dark skin was decorated with raindrops, and she wore no make-up. 

“Hello, pretty boy,” she hissed, grinning mischievously. “You’re one helluva fool for landing this plane in the middle of Paris.”

“At least we found a fairly empty place. Could’ve just gone right in the streets.” He paused before holding out his hand for her. “I’m Enjolras, which I usually prefer to ‘pretty boy.’”

She shook his hand, splashing water on his hoodie as she swung her arm. “Nissi.”

Reluctantly, he stepped aside to let her and her comrades inside. Les Amis got a better look at the other three. 

The guy who followed directly behind Nissi was incredibly scrawny looking. It was obvious he was older than her, but second—if not third—in command. He wore an army jacket and cargo shorts, the name “Valdez” embroidered on the breast pocket of the jacket. His stance was complete with an array of weapons on his belt. 

The next was a girl, not quite as dark and serious-looking as Nissi. Her dirty blonde hair was woven into a braid and pinned down in every place, like it was an annoyance. She had blue eyes almost as bright as Enjolras’s, and on the same level of beauty. Shaping her lean body was a loose-fitting navy sweater and blue jeans. Chuck Taylor’s covered her feet. She was more scraped up than the other two, and wore a slightly-worried smile. 

The last male—dressed in a ragged suit and black top hat—surprised the ABC. 

“ _Montparnasse?_ ”

He winked, tipping his hat. “Fancy meeting you fuckers here.”

Bahorel frowned. “You’re alive?”

“Airports are wonderful things, my dear Bahorel. Paris was invaded when we touched down, and that was a bit of a problem, you see? The goddamn undead were spoiling my vacation. I’d met Valdez here and his younger sister, Nissi, on the plane. Tactical, they are. We got out of the plane and took the airport before the inferiors could. We had a nice, stable group of fighters. Almost, I’d say, comparable to the ABC. Not as loyal, though. Or _loud_. I’ll never forgive you for blowing that air horn in my ear, Feuilly.

“That group was pretty efficient, though, until we lost four of our best in an accident about a week ago. Since then, Nissi, Valdez, Margot, and I have been defending ourselves the best we can.”

“We saw your plane coming in and knew we either had to kill every _thing_ on here or help. I, personally, wanted to kill you, but Margot had different plans. No offense.” Nissi fell back into a seat. “I take it you know Parnasse?”

“Old friends,” Enjolras muttered. 

“Get your panties out of a twist, pretty boy. It’s, uh… Enjolras, yes?”

He nodded sharply. Courfeyrac noticed that the girl—Margot—was staring at Jehan’s sweater and flower crown throughout their conversation. 

“So… you’ve been here around a month,” Combeferre stated spontaneously. The look in his eyes was the same look he got when he was analyzing a person or situation or reading passage. “You witnessed the beginning of it?”

“Not quite, Ferret.” Combeferre crinkled his nose at the nickname Montparnasse gave him. “Paris was gone a few days by the time we got here. It was just spreading into Western Asia, I believe. It was just before the Americans realized, ‘Oh shit, there’s a fucking problem over there.’ No other airplanes have come into this airport since we arrived, and I sure as hell haven’t seen any others in the sky. Except yours, of course.”

Nissi coughed. “Did you just call him ‘Ferret?’”

“I much prefer to go by Combeferre,” the bookworm grumbled. 

“Although you do resemble a ferret, a little,” Courfeyrac joked. At his boyfriend’s scowl, he laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m only teasing, sexy.”

Montparnasse grinned. “You two, eh? Good. Any other relationship bondings I missed while I was busy kicking ass?”

The fact that his eyes flickered from Grantaire to Bahorel wasn’t surprising. They used to be drinking buddies, and Montparnasse has heard both of them confess that they loved someone else in Les Amis. Enjolras, oblivious to the fact that Parnasse was staring at his boyfriend, moved closer to R and grabbed his hand. Something inside the cynic became whole again. 

Bahorel didn’t react, and Feuilly rolled his eyes. 

“I see the drama hasn’t decreased any. Who’s this lovely lady?”

Cosette smiled at him and introduced herself. Then, at his questioning look, added, “Marius’s girlfriend.”

“Ah, I see. Where _is_ the puppy?”

She suddenly became very interested with the floor. 

Montparnasse removed his hat. “I’m sorry. Any others?”

“Gavroche,” Éponine murmured. 

He focused on her for the first time since his arrival. She was half-hiding behind Bahorel, her arms folded across her chest. He flattened his suit jacket and put his hat back on, his eyes wide and staring at her. 

Margot’s lips upturned. “Is that… _oh,_ Montparnasse.”

“‘Ponine,” he whispered. “I, um… hi.”

She didn’t respond. 

“Gavroche?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Don’t push it, man.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Valdez cut in, “who exactly _are_ you guys?”

Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras answered at the same time, their voices coming very close to being in perfect harmony. “Les Amis de l’ABC.”

Valdez frowned, but Nissi grinned. “Oh, perfect. I’ve heard a lot about you guys on TV and shit. Can’t believe you survived this long, to be honest.”

“The name’s Courfeyrac,” Courf introduced himself, stepping up to kiss her hand. Combeferre tensed. “I absolutely _love_ your shoes.”

A double-bladed sword pressed up against his hand, seeming to have appeared out of nowhere. He fell back with a faint, “Holy shit.”

She waggled her eyebrows. “I’m glad you think so. They’re my favorites.”

“Nissi, put the sword away! She’s no harm to you,” Valdez assured the ABC as their leader lowered her blade. “She likes to joke. Still, I wouldn’t get on her bad side. I’ve seen what she can do with that sword.” 

Courfeyrac chuckled. “That came out of friggin’ _nowhere_! Where do you keep it?” 

“That’s for me to know and you _not_ to find out.”

Enjolras interrupted their conversation by stepping up to Nissi. Even people who didn’t personally know him knew when he wished to speak, and—usually—didn’t try to stop him; one of the many perks of being an anarchical pain in the ass.

“I have a feeling we could teach each other a lot of useful skills. Would you have any desire to collaborate?”

She contemplated. “It certainly would go a long way for us. We’ve been slacking ever since we lost our… friends.” She used the term loosely, like she couldn’t find a better word. She turned to her brother. “Ronnie?”

He, while upset at the name she’d used to address him, nodded. “I see no problems.”

When Montparnasse was put in question, he merely snorted. “I’m not stupid enough to pass up a chance at working with Les Amis.”

The girl—Margot—was incredibly silent. She seemed to be analyzing each member of the foreign group.

Then she realized she was being addressed and tripped over her own feet.

“W-What? Oh, yes—yeah, who am I to deny that opportunity? Strength in numbers, yes?” 

Courf let out a quick chuckle at her stammering, but Enjolras stifled it with a glare.

“We’re all in agreement?

No one protested.

“Good.” Nissi ran her finger along Enjolras’s chin, which sent a pang of envy through Grantaire. “Let me show you around, pretty boy.”

# ~

It was quick for them to gather their few belongings (and their bearings). When the rain started to ease up, Nissi led them to the airport.

From the little Combeferre got to see of Paris, he concluded one thing about the (former) city of romance: it was dead. Inactive corpses lay motionless in the streets. There was no electricity or commotion like a major city was supposed to have. The Eiffel Tower was crumbling from a fallen helicopter that had crashed into its right side weeks before. The government buildings were dormant, the landmarks and roads silent. There were no pigeons, and there was definitely no romance.

“Quickly now,” Nissi urged, leading the group. Enjolras looked incredibly frustrated at having to be a follower, but Grantaire comforted him.

For a dead city, it was very peaceful. The zombies weren’t ravishing newborns, but older and starving ones. The exhaustion had caused them to go temporarily inanimate, but Ferre knew too well that if they caught one whiff of _living,_ they’d charge and be completely uncoordinated, which was one of the most deadliest combinations.

“You don’t call them zombies,” he remembered suddenly, talking to Margot (the nearest of their new colleagues). “What was it… inferiors?”   
“We call them supernaturals,” she replied, her voice soft and gentle. “Inferiors are those who are on a path to becoming a supernatural. Superiors—like you and me—are those who are still living, and, well, basically not injected with the supernatural virus.”

“Injected,” Ferre repeated. “That’s an interesting word choice.”

She stuck her hands in her pockets. “That’s what they’re doing, don’t you see? The supernaturals are viruses, and the superiors are blood cells. The main goal of a virus is to inject into the blood cells and change them to carry the virus—inferiors—and then eventually become the virus. It’s really simple process, if you think about it.”

Combeferre pursed his lips. “I admire your intellect. Fantastic analogy, too.” 

“Oh, thank you, but it wasn’t my theory.” 

“But, if not yours, then whose?” 

The smile she offered him was full of sadness and pain. She unconsciously played with the silver necklace around her neck. It was half of a heart, with a few letters engraved onto it.

“Ah. I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you… uh, miss them?”

She grinned, with melancholy tainting her expression. “We broke up, actually. Before the apocalypse. We were still friends, to an extinct… and she’d still call, sometimes. She called me while I was living in Rome for my university’s overseas program. Told me all about this disease. She was closer to Paris at the time… simply luck that we both happened to be in Europe.

“I listened to her die on the phone. Devoured by those things. She’d been working in a lab at the time, and their barriers broke…” Margot choked up, but quickly regained her speech. “Even though I didn’t love her anymore, she was still my friend and ex-girlfriend. She meant lot to me, and listening to her die… it was too much. 

“I’m very thankful that she thought to call me, though. It gave me time to prepare to leave, and I just drove west, because there was no where else to go. I arrived in Paris, after many days of car travel and fighting off the supernaturals, and Nissi found me on a scavenge.”

“I’m sorry about your loss. God knows we’ve all lost people we love.” Combeferre smiled, despite the sadness of his sentence. “You’re very interesting. You remind me a bit of our friend Jehan—”

“The one in the sweater and flower crown?” 

He nodded.

“I am a lot like him.”

“Remind me to introduce you guys when we get to a safe, unexposed environment.”

Margot smiled back, but before she could reply, there was a shout from the front of the group. Bahorel and Valdez each had a blade sticking out of either side of a zombie that had risen from the ground. 

“ _Move!_ ”

Nissi’s warning was lost in the wind, but Combeferre was smart enough to figure it out. He surged forward, falling in suit with Courfeyrac. Their new acquaintances were far ahead, thinking quicker than Les Amis. But the ABC wasn’t stupid; after Combeferre and Courf, Enjolras followed nearly on their heels, dragging Grantaire by the hand. R was struggling to keep the pace. The others were close behind.

Ferre _swore_ he saw his boyfriend smirk at him as they sprinted after Nissi, Valdez, Montparnasse, and Margot. It _was_ exhilarating, and Combeferre couldn’t deny that. They were making more noise now, and the inanimate zombies, even miles away, were starting to get the idea that they were food. 

“Enj.”

Combeferre tossed him a revolver, and the leader caught it in a swift movement, letting go of Grantaire. He shot at the undead, killing them before they could rise.

“ _Shit_!” 

Courfeyrac had a zombie latched on to him, but before it could bite him or scratch him, Enjolras slammed his heel into its head and stomped on its brains.

“Nobody,” he breathed, his expression beyond angry, “fucks with my friends. Go to hell, you bastard.”

They continued on, sprinting across the city toward the Orly airport. 

“Fuck this!” Grantaire groaned, breathing hard. “I’m tired of this story going in a loop! No more fucking zombies, no more fucking running cause my fucking sides hurt!” 

“I swear to god, R, if you don’t keep running I _will_ carry you!”

The cynic didn’t move, so Enjolras backtracked and threw his boyfriend over his shoulders. He sprinted ahead at full speed, despite all of Taire’s complaining.

“Keep moving!” the leader commanded. Courfeyrac and Ferre ran at his sides, struggling to keep up with him. Bahorel was gaining on them sightly, Feuilly right behind him. Éponine was helping Cosette—even though she was doing quite fine on her own. Joly and Bossuet kept their hands clasped together as they dodged awakening bodies.

The airport wasn’t hard to see. It was probably once beautiful, but now it just looked big and bulky. Valdez stood at the gate, Nissi, Montparnasse, and Margot already inside the fence.

After getting inside—in which Enjolras eased Taire to the ground and glared at him—and taking five minutes to catch his breath, Joly asked, “Since when do airports have fences like this?”

“We had to keep those things out somehow, right?” Nissi responded, helping her brother latch the gate shut. “In case you’d forgotten, we’ve been here for weeks. We’ve had the time to make some necessary adjustments.”

“Come inside,” Margot offered warmly. Les Amis followed her into the first building.

It was dark, cold, and felt just like an airport.

“Oh, it’s not usually like this, Montparnasse just needs to fuel the generator.”

As the words left her lips, the airport flickered to life. The signs that said departing and arriving were blank and the music was dead, but the lights showed them the clean floor that had no dead bodies scattered around. 

“We only have gates C, D, and E,” Nissi told them as she, Valdez, and Montparnasse came in and sealed the doors. “The others are too infested right now. I wouldn’t try to get past the barriers at the ends of gates C and E, or we’re all going to die.”

“Food?” Valdez asked, laying down on a row of seats by a terminal. 

“Get it yourself, lazy ass!”

“ _I’ll_ get it for both of you,” Margot groaned, as if she’d been in the middle of this argument before. “Relax, Les Amis. It must’ve been a rough journey. We’ve got a limited water supply—it’ll most likely be cold, too—but you’re welcome to it. There are showers in the bathroom. You can find food in practically any of the restaurants. We keep it well refrigerated and sanitary. Sleep anywhere—inside C, D, and E, of course.”

Enjolras thanked her before she left to go raid one of the restaurants. Montparnasse asked Éponine for her hand, and Cosette gently pushed her toward him. 

“Let me show you my favorite place around here,” he whispered seductively, enclosing both of his hands around hers. “Come on.”

And they were gone.

# ~

“It’s beautiful, Parnasse.”

“Right at sunrise, too, when its most beautiful. Like you.”

Éponine was lost looking outside the window in the control tower of C wing. It was easy to see the city being so high up. It may have been dead, but with the sun breaking the horizon behind it, it was the most marvelous thing she’d ever seen.

“Your comrades seem like badasses.”

“They are.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say about them?”

Montparnasse sighed. “They’re… different. I mean, I used to hang around _your parents,_ of course they’re different. That’s how we met, don’t you remember?”

“Of course, I do.” She grabbed his hand. “Well.”

“Éponine…” 

“Is it Margot? Or Nissi?”

He closed his eyes. “No, no it’s not. It’s _you._ I’m a murderer. That’s what I _do_ , that’s what I _enjoy doing_. That should repulse you. Besides, you’re my friend’s _daughter_ —”

“Did that stop you from fucking me?”

“‘Ponine—”

She turned her back on him, but it was mere seconds before he wrapped his smooth arms around her middle. He put his chin into her neck, holding her close to him.

“What do you want?” he asked. “I will give you anything that you desire. Just say the first thing that comes to your mind.”   
She hesitated, but finally whispered, “You.”

“I’m yours.”

He kissed her, his soft, pink lips sweeping against hers gently. Montparnasse idolized romance, not sex (not that he didn’t enjoy that, too). He knew how to sweep a girl off her feet, especially Éponine. So, he kissed her again. And again. And again. And continued to kiss her, waiting for her to tell him to stop. But she never did.

# ~

“You’re crazy,” Nissi growled, narrowing her eyebrows. “No, sorry, you’re absolutely fucking insane. You _were_ out there this morning, weren’t you?”

“We came here for a purpose, I intend to fulfill that purpose.”

“You’re _going_ to die.”

Enjolras gingerly tugged at the chain around his neck. “It’s a necessary risk.”

“It’s not a fucking risk, it’s a fact! You, and anyone foolish enough to accompany you, are going to be supernatural chow!”

Around the corner of the two’s incredibly loud argument, Valdez sighed. “How long do you think they’ll keep it up?”

Grantaire shrugged. “If there’s anything I know about Enjolras, it’s that he’s a stubborn ass, and _will not_ give up on something he believes in. If she’s is anything like him, they’ll be here for days.”

They sat at the airport’s Burger King, lounging at the table closest to the window. Margot came up to them and sat next to Taire.

“Yo.” She cringed when Nissi loudly shouted at Enjolras. “What’re they going on about?”

Valdez rolled his eyes. “Enjolras wants to go look for a cure in the city. Nissi told him he’s a fucking idiot. You can infer the rest.”

“Enj _is_ a fucking idiot,” R muttered. “But I love him nonetheless.”

“You’re dating him?” Margot asked. “Jesus, have you ever won an argument?”   
He laughed. “Of course not. He’s tactical, knows what to say when, stubborn, fucking good at arguing, and a really, really kisser.”

“That would make a good poem,” Jehan speculated, making Margot jump at his unannounced presence. “I should write a poem about Enjolras.”

Grantaire frowned. “That’s my job, Prouvaire. The romance thing.”

“Oh _please_. I _am not_ moving in on your man. No need to worry yourself. Not that I wouldn’t date him, if I had the chance, but I’m loyal to my friends. Besides… I’m sure he, as queer as he is, wants sex that I couldn’t give to him. Ace, remember?” 

“Margot is hard to arouse,” Valdez muttered randomly. “I think she may be demisexual. You have no idea how many times I’ve tried—” 

“Shut up, Ronnie.”

Jehan glanced at her, smiling in a charming way only he could pull off. “My name is Jean Prouvaire; I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. My friends call me Jehan, though. Y’know, my parents didn’t really approve of the name change.”

“Margot.”

She didn’t swoon like most girls (and guys, for that matter) did as the poet spoke so seductively to her. That was the special thing about the ABC: each of them had their own enchanting charm, and convince people to do things with said charm. Bahorel used his to get sex. He once got a hooker to fuck him for free because he was just that goddamn charming. Enjolras had people of every gender sending him fan mail—only some of that mail would focus on the Cause, though, much to Enj’s displeasure. Courfeyrac’s can-be-adorable-at-times-and-then-can-be-really-fucking-sexy-with-a-simple-expression-change talent had gotten him free passes to Disney World, at least fifteen girl/boyfriends, and more than a hundred free drinks.

Margot was resistant to Jehan’s (unintentional) sexy charm. She just straightened his flower-crown, explaining with: “It was crooked.”

“Do you want one?” 

Her smile—not sexy like Jehan’s nor mischievous like Grantaire’s, but a perfect median between the two—lit up the room. “Yeah, sure. If you have one, I mean, I don’t want you to go out of your way to do something for me because I’m really not—”

Jehan cut her off by pulling a well-made crown out of his bag. He motioned for her to turn around before he pulled her hair out of its tight braid and began to mess with it. Only twice did he get his fingers caught.

“It’s thick.” 

“Tell me about it. It gets in the way more often than it does me any good.” 

“But you could do so much with it.” He interlaced the crown into her hair, combing through the stray strands with his thin, nimble fingers. “If you don’t like it, why don’t you cut it?”

She didn’t respond.

“I think Margot’s found her fraternal twin,” Valdez said, rolling his eyes. Grantaire snorted.

“How the fuck are you known internationally?” Nissi screamed, louder than she had been yelling and interrupting the somewhat peaceful conversation the small group had been having. “How the _fuck_ are you leading one of the most well-known rebellious groups in the western hemisphere? You’re just setting yourself up to get killed!”

“If I may interject…” Combeferre’s quiet voice echoed throughout the corridor, silencing the two leaders. “Enjolras is actually one of the most intelligent men in America. He got accepted into more than one of the top ivy-league schools and all of the top public universities he applied for. It’s not just because of his knowledge that he’s a well-respected leader and has managed to tear down many of the unfair government laws in more than just the United States, but because of his common sense and natural leadership ability. I, personally, trust his judgement… _most_ of the time. He _can_ be a bit rash at times. Yet, Enjolras is right, in this case. Our—at least the ABC’s—job is to protect and honor the people, and the people are being harmed. None of us are asking you to accompany us, or even help us any more than you have. We’re incredibly grateful for what you’ve done for us. But we— _I_ —must ask you not to restrict us from fighting for what we believe in.”

Nissi was silent at first, but eventually nodded. “Sure. The people are being harmed. I get that. But who made you responsible for saving them?”

“I did,” Enjolras murmured gently, his voice calm for the first time since their conversation started. “I watched my politician of a father destroy our world my entire life, and I’ve been working just about that long to fix that destruction. I _watched him_ destroy the people. Tear them down. Strip them of their rights. That’s exactly what this disease did, or whatever the hell it is. All I know is that I won’t accept it. The people must be free.”

“I pledge myself to the ABC.”

There was an uneasy silence.

“What of your group?” Enjolras asked. “What if they don’t chose to come? You can’t just abandon them.”

Nissi smirked. “Ronnie will follow me anywhere because I’m his sister, Margot’s really into the whole ‘for the people’ stuff, and I have a feeling Montparnasse will go with the ABC.” 

A true, meaningfully smile spread across Enjolras’s face, the one he only reserved for his friends. Nissi beamed back, and a solid understand of friendship and alliance passed between the two.

# ~

“You wanted to see me, Feuilly?”

The ginger sighed as Bossuet approached him. The unlucky man looked uncomfortable without his other half, but came at Feuilly’s request nevertheless.

“I need to tell you something,” the Polish boy all-but whispered. “About Bahorel. He… He asked me never to tell anyone, but I can’t… anymore…”

“What is it?”

Feuilly hesitated.

“C’mon, you can tell me. It can’t be _that_ bad.” He paused, still seeing the reluctance in his friend’s eyes. “Would it help if I told you that I already know he’s a crossdresser?”

“ _How_ —?”

“Courfeyrac told Joly and me after he encountered Bahorel a few months ago. At least half of Les Amis knows, even if they won’t admit it; Courf just can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.” 

“Oh.”

“Anything else? You seem kinda… down.” 

Feuilly sighed again. “Have you and Joly ever had… problems… with sex?”

After a pause, Laigle bursted out laughing. It took him a solid three minutes to compose himself in order to answer. “Joly… Joly is a _hypochondriac_ , Feuilly. Do you seriously think I haven’t had problems in the bedroom? Or even just kissing, for that matter? He’s always been more open to me than most, that’s true, but he’s never been able to completely overcome it.”

“Musichetta…?”

“She couldn’t do it, either!” Bossuet wiped a tear away from his eye, still chuckling. “Joly is very special, and he’s got a serious disorder. He’s functioned a lot better than most hypochondriacs do, but it’s still there. Intimacy is _incredibly_ difficult for us, and it was even harder for him and Musichetta.” 

“How did you—?” 

“Same way I’ve always helped him. The first time we met, he could hardly be within a foot of me, even if I was, technically, his best friend. Joly was picked on a lot in middle school—and high school, too. He trusted me, but he still couldn’t be within a foot of me. I remember the  
first time I touched his hand, he almost burned his hand off trying to disinfect it.

“I push him. A lot. I touch him more than he’d like to be touched, even by me. I always have. It’s my own way of curing him, and so far, it’s worked. Musichetta picked up that technique too, but I’ve known him longer. I’ve had more time to screw with him. By the time he even met Musichetta, I could put my arm around him without him flinching. With me, he started to get better, and then with ‘Chetta.”

“When did he get to the point that he could have sex?” Feuilly asked.

“His first year of college.”

The ginger frowned. “I thought… Bahorel told me that you guys were with Musichetta. Like, together.” 

“Bahorel must’ve misheard Joly. Or didn’t understand. My husband isn’t the best at talking about that, it very well might’ve been his fault. I was Joly’s first kiss, and nobody else has touched his lips with their own. ‘Chetta would kiss his cheek and stuff, but he wasn’t at the point to kiss her when she finally backed off and practically pushed us together.

“It was a miracle I finally got to have him in a sexual way. We had just moved in together for the first time, and we’d come out to my parents, not his. I thought my parents _might_ be more accepting than his, but they weren’t. I forgot for a moment that they were quite homophobic. So, unknowing of our relationship, Joly’s parents funded our apartment, and Jehan chipped in a lot, when he moved in. It was before he moved in, though, when it settled in that we were _alone_ in an apartment that big. I didn’t push him into it; I never would. He made the decision on his own, and told me he wanted me. That night, throughout all the struggle we went through, battling with his hypochondria, we did it. And he was happy.

“If you’re striving to find the right time with Bahorel, maybe you just need to wait. I think the fact that he’s waiting is a good sign that he doesn’t want to spoil you. It’s been—what, two-three years since you last fucked?”

“Yeah.”

“Just wait. He’ll come around.”

Feuilly nodded. “Thanks, Bossuet. I appreciate it.”

Courfeyrac came running up to them at that moment, his face red. “Meeting by Burger King at five this afternoon. Enj’s orders.”

“Fun,” the Polish boy muttered.

“I know, right?” Courf winked and sprinted away. 

Feuilly paused before turning to Laigle again. “Go find your Jolllly. You look lost without him.”

# ~

“I want to go scout the city,” Enjolras told the group as they gathered that afternoon. The sun shone on the extended Les Amis—all but Éponine and Montparnasse were present, who had disappeared earlier that morning. Nobody was particularly worried. “Not all of us, though. Just a small group of maybe… three or four?”

“Are you volunteering yourself, Enj?” Bahorel asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I am, actu—”

“I’m going, too,” Grantaire announced before his boyfriend had even finished his sentence. “ _You jump, I jump, Jack_.”

“R MADE AN ALLUSION!” Courfeyrac exclaimed as Enjolras glared at Taire. “My little cynic is all grown up! I’m a proud papa.”

Combeferre sighed at his silly lover. “If nobody minds, I volunteer my insane boyfriend and myself.”

“Take this with you.” Nissi thrusted a revolver-type weapon into Enjy’s hand. “It won’t kill a supernatural, but it tranquilizes them and doesn’t draw any attention with sound, like a gun does. Handy little thing to have, that. The effects don’t wear off for about an hour, but _do not_ kill them while they’re under. They’ll scream bloody murder.”

The leader nodded, breaking his death glare on Taire. “Let’s get a move on. I’ll meet you three by the gate in ten minutes.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's probably a bad sign that I cried while writing this.
> 
> Prepare for many emotions, a backstory, and a MAJOR. CHARACTER. DEATH.
> 
> *more tears*

As cliche as it sounded, Grantaire had a bad feeling about the trip.

He was walking along the dead streets of Paris with the Golden Trio, Enjolras clutching his hand tightly. The world was so quiet with all the people gone. Taire enjoyed it.

The red overcoat Enjolras had gifted him was loose on his thin body. It was a good luck charm, and Grantaire had the feeling they’d need all the luck they could get. He noticed Enj twisting the chain on his neck with his free hand.

“Where do you plan to look first, General?” Courfeyrac asked, his eyes searching the abandoned buildings for something.

“The hospital,” Enjolras replied, his blond curls falling in his eyes. “If the stories are true and it _did_ originate here, then they most likely took the first patient to the hospital, yes? That’s what humans do.”

Combeferre squinted his eyes. “I hate being nearsighted.”

Courf laughed.

“There.”

The group’s conversing came to an abrupt halt as the leader started to sprint toward what was very obviously the hospital. Grantaire was pulled along beside him, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac weren’t far behind.

“We need to split up,” Courf told them. “Cover more ground. Because, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m really anxious to get out of this hell hole.”

Enjolras nodded. “How do you want to divide?”

“You and me?” Ferre suggested.

Grantaire was hesitant, but with one look from his boyfriend, nodded. He knew it’d be easier to him to fight if he didn’t have to protect Enjolras, and Enj knew the same. 

“R and I will take the lower levels.” 

Combeferre nodded and headed for the stairs, with the leader on his tail. Enjolras kept up well, and they went up about three levels, leaving Courfeyrac and Grantaire behind.

“How dead do you think it will be?” Ferre asked.

“I don’t know. It can’t be pretty, though.” He pushed open the door, trying to be as silent as possible. They stepped over inanimate bodies rotting away on the floor. The only light came from the sun that shone through the windows and the lights on the ceiling that would occasionally flicker to life. Enjy silently hoped the bodies below them wouldn’t do the same.

“Careful,” he warned the bookworm as they stepped over the mess of arms and legs. 

Linking arms to stay close, the two continued through the quiet hospital. It reminded Apollo of when they would do that as teenagers—without the zombies, of course. They would use that tactic when they were put through their physical education classes and had obstacle courses or challenges. They were always a team, and, by using their combined intelligence and friendship, were usually able to beat the other teams. The fact that they could still use it now, when they were much older, had grown into their bodies, and during the apocalypse… it was astonishing to Ferre. 

He remembered when they were scrawny middle schoolers, and the time Enjolras had rebelled against the dress code. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been right at his side, and together, the three of them started a school-wide revolution. It was one of their first acts as friends and as the Golden Trio. It was that moment that had made them practically inseparable.

Then in high school, when they were all arrested for protesting the city government about banning homosexual behavior in the school system. The city had outraged over arresting three underage boys for simply exercising their rights. It had actually ended in the governor, who’d been the one who’d ordered for the arresting of the boys, getting impeached, them getting released from juvenile detention with no charges, and the law revoked.

Now, there they were. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had finally gotten together, and Enjolras had, against everyone’s thoughts, found someone he loved. They had started and led one of the better rebellion groups in America, and were fighting in the apocalypse. But they’d gone through it all together. 

“I’m glad we’re still together,” Ferre whispered. “You, me, and Courf.”

Enj glanced at him. “The Golden Trio. Nobody fucks with my clique… I’d defend you guys with my life.”

“I hate to get all sappy and emotional, but… I love you, Enjolras. You changed my life so much, and I… I couldn’t imagine where I would’ve gone without you.”

“Love you too, Combeferre.”

Enjolras said his name a little too loudly, and he realized this too late. One of the zombies at his feet blinked.

“Enj…” Ferre warned, looking at their feet.

The leader balled his fists and whispered one simple, little word. “ _Run._ ”

# ~

Courfeyrac grazed one of the bodies with the tip of his gun. 

“I wish we could go back to the Musain.”

“The Musain is probably overrun with the undead,” Taire said in a hushed tone. At Courfeyrac’s saddened expression, he added, “But we might get to, if we survive all this.”

“ _If._ ” 

“What happened to the optimist I know?”

Courf sighed. “I’m trying, I really am. But it’s hard lately, with this much… dead around us. Besides, it’s hard to think of the Musain without Gavroche prancing around there.”

The cynic snorted. “ _Prancing_ certainly isn’t the word I would’ve used.” 

“Shut up.”

He fell silent at his friend’s command, and figured out quickly why Courfeyrac had given it. There was a crazed-eyed zombie staring right at him in the corner of the reception area. It cocked its head at him, giving a sweet second of pure silence before groaning loudly and lunging at him.

Which, of course, awakened the other “sleeping” zombies all around them.

“ _Dammit!_ ” Courfeyrac shouted at he cut off the head of the zombie with his knife. “We have to get upstairs! To Enjolras and Combeferre!”

R nodded, killing another zombie. “You’re so right. Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Courf nodded in return, and sprinted up the staircase, killing or maiming any _dead_ thing he could on his way up.

# ~

Enjolras and Combeferre were trapped. There were corpses all around them, and more corpses up and attacking them. Running out of ammo for his gun, Combeferre slammed the butt of the rifle into one of the zombies. The stream of the undead seemed to be thinning, and Ferre relaxed a bit. Until he heard a bloodcurdling scream that rattled his bones. 

“ _Enjolras_!” Combeferre exclaimed, turning to find his friend covered by a corpse. It was ripping at his flesh, sinking it’s hungry teeth into Enj’s shoulder. A bullet barreled into its forehead, and it fell backward, dead. 

Grantaire was quicker than Ferre; he was at Enjolras’s side in under a second, dropping the revolver as he ran to his lover. Combeferre was thankful that he’d closed and locked the door behind him to keep more of those fuckers from attacking them.

He stroked Enjy’s hair, pushing the blond locks from his eyes. “Enjolras, what have you done?”

Apollo flashed a quick, pained smile at his boyfriend. “Saved… Ferre. It was… coming from be-hind. Don’t touch... friends.”

Combeferre choked back a sob.

“Gran… taire,” Enjolras said. “You have to… shoot…”

“No,” the cynic declared, not a single tear falling from his eyes. “I will not shoot you. I... I can’t.”

“Pl-ease. I can’t… be one of…”

“I’ll do it,” Combeferre offered. He had gotten their fearless leader into this; it was the least he could do. 

“ _No!_ ” Enjolras blinked quickly. “Gran…taire… has to. Help… get over me.”

“I’ll join you soon in the land of the dead, my love,” Grantaire proclaimed. “I promise.”

“Heaven… not land of the… dead. Here.”

Taire chuckled lightly. “You’re right. Earth is more dead than the afterlife.” He picked up the revolver and clicked a bullet into place.

“Promise me… something.”

R nodded. “Anything, my Apollo.”

“Find the origin. End this.”

He said the last two sentences without faltering or the blood in his mouth keeping him from speaking clearly. It rang out through the tiny, torn down building. 

“I promise. I love you.”

“As I love you.”

The ear-piercing sound of the gunshot overpowered everything, except the faint echo of Enjolras’s dying statement.

# ~

Everything around Combeferre was red; Enjolras’s red coat, which was draped over Grantaire’s body, the blood scattered everywhere, Grantaire’s eyes. They were red, but he was not crying. 

They were both silent, probably for the better. Ferre wasn’t sure he could speak at all. There was a banging at the door, and when both of the men hesitated, there was a shout. “Goddammit, let me in! It’s a mess out here!”

Combeferre ran to the door and opened it to see Courfeyrac standing there, his body bloody and covered with the black zombie oil. 

“What…?” 

Courf sprinted to his friend’s body, pushing Ferre aside. “Enjolras… _Enjolras_.”

“I shot him,” Taire whispered. “I shot him dead. He’s gone. I shot him because he asked me to. Because he asked me to.”

It sounded like the painter was trying to sooth himself.

Courfeyrac, with tears staining his brightly-colored eyes, stood up and embraced Grantaire, but he couldn’t register the hug enough to raise his arms. He just groaned into Courf’s soothing embrace.

“R… R, where’s your arm?”

Grantaire froze up. He hadn’t been expecting that question. Or maybe he had, but he hadn’t expected them to realize it that quickly. 

Combeferre grabbed the cynic’s left arm at his boyfriend’s question, seeing that everything past Taire’s elbow was missing. There was a shirt— _his_ shirt, Ferre realized quickly, seeing Grantaire’s chest bare under Enj’s buttoned jacket—tied around the stump, but it was quickly becoming full of blood and useless as a bandage. 

“We need to get to Joly,” Courf muttered.

Taire nodded.

“You got bit, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you cut it off to try and stop the infection.”

“Yeah.”

“Did it work?”

Grantaire finally met his eyes. There was pain, fear, and overall panic radiated throughout his body. “No.”

“You’re going to turn?”

“Eventually.”

“Stop giving us vague answers!” Combeferre shouted. “Give us something! Please, Grantaire! I can’t… I can’t believe…”

R sighed. “We need to work on getting out of here. I’ll explain when we get back.”

“No,” Courfeyrac demanded, “you’ll explain now.”

Taire fidgeted with the shirt around his wound as he spoke reluctantly. “After you left, Courf, I… I tried to follow you, but one of them snagged my arm. I thought I could stop the spread of the disease by cutting off the place of impact, but… I wasn’t quick enough. If I had maybe been a half second earlier… but no. I’m still infected. I can feel it. The only thing I’ve done is slowed the process, so it’ll take longer to turn me. I was going to shoot myself on site, but I knew that wasn’t fair to… _him_ , or to Ferre, or to you. Not only couldn’t I abandon you, but I couldn’t… die… without saying goodbye. I went to find _him_ , and—well, y’know. I wasn’t going to tell you guys once I found him… like he was. No need to worry him on his deathbed.”

“What’re you going to do?” Ferre asked. 

“I have a promise to keep,” Grantaire answered. “I’ll do my damnedest to complete the task that… _he_ put in front of us, and when I turn, I’ll know before I do. I’m gonna need somebody by me with a gun at all times, because once I’ve started to turn completely, I’ll have very little time to alert someone. Hopefully I can keep my promise before I join my love, though.”

Combeferre thought over what his friend was saying, and finally, after a minute or two, put his arm over Taire. Courfeyrac did the same.

“So, let’s keep that promise, then.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loss of Enjolras affects everyone (especially Grantaire), Joly gets a _little_ tipsy, Les Amis finds out more information about zombies, the author cries over more deaths. So does Joly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nissi's character develops some toward the end of this chapter, and I am kind of starting to have Grantaire stepping up to take the place as the leader. I feel like that's what would've happened if Enjolras had died first during the June Rebellion; Grantaire, being struck with grief and angst, would've picked up the flags and finished the fight with tears in his eyes. So yeah. That's kind of what happens here. 
> 
> Also, sorry for those who are actively reading this, I've been trying to update as much as possible. The stress of exams is getting to my head and overwhelming me, which means more time studying and less time writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading throughout all of my character deaths. Unfortunately, there are still more to come. I'm sorry.

“I give you a month. At best.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have to keep that wound closed up, too. And learn how to function with only one hand.”

“I know.”

“Somebody is going to have to stay with you all the time, too. And you’ll have to keep a gun on you at all times, just to be double sure that when the time comes, if one of us can’t take you out, _you_ can.”

“I know, Joly.”

“It’s going to be a big responsibility, and a huge burden. On all of us.” 

Grantaire offered him an emotionless smile. “I have to do what I can. For _him._ ”

“I think you to be very courageous, Taire,” Joly told him. “That’s a noble thing to do, especially on your deathbed. I’ll do my best to help you, I just hope you know that it won’t be easy.”   
“I’m well aware.”

The medic patted his shoulder. After Combeferre, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac had returned from their trip, they’d all decided it be best to close off one area for a “medical tent.” Joly had taken Grantaire to that new, designated place immediately with his first aid kit.

“How are you, beside the injury?”

“Honestly, Joly?” Taire laughed humorlessly. “I can’t wait to die.”

“I imagine.”

The painter grunted and hit the table with his closed fist. His hand came back red and throbbing. 

“You need to keep yourself calm, my friend,” Joly murmured, sliding onto the table next to him. “The less you give into your anger, the longer I suspect it’ll take for you to turn.” 

“What’s going to happen to me? Before…?”

“I wish I knew. But, by my best possible guess, I’d say you’re going to grow weak, you’ll grow angry, you’ll start lacking in normal human… things. Sleep, appetite, et cetera.”

R clenched his fist again. “And I’ll die before I turn?”

“If the disease continues with the same pattern, yes. It kills before it turns. But, you’re a special case; you slowed the infection, and… I really don’t know, Taire.”

The painter nodded.

“Why don’t you get some sleep while you can?” The medic gently put his hand on Grantaire’s, stroking it softly. “Or… if you’d like, I think there’s a shop in E-Wing stocked full of alcohol… I haven’t had a good drinking in forever.” 

R stood up and nodded again. “Drink. Drink sounds good.”

# ~

_Ba-bump. Ba-bump._

_You_ killed _him. Shot him in cold blood. Poor… dying Enjolras… the only thing that ever made you happy. And you killed him, you monster. No good son of a bitch. Murderous basta_ —

Grantaire jolted awake, his single hand balled into a fist and sweat beading up on his forehead. His amputated arm was stinging like salt had been thrown into it.

“Jesus _fuck_ , R, keep down the screaming!” Bahorel complained, burying his head into Feuilly’s chest. 

Joly groaned from next to Grantaire, as they were both lying on the floor of E-Wing, but he rolled over and asked, “What is it, R?”

Taire tried to dismiss it with a simple, “Nothing,” but when he tried to speak, his voice came out rough and dry. His vision was blurred, his head was aching, his hand was violently shaking and was also bloody from digging into his flesh with his fingernails.

The hypochondriac offered him a sympathetic smile. “It seems we drank a bit too much.”

“I forgot what a hard drunk you are. I think you out drank _me_ last night.”

The two laughed in unison.

“I’m disappointed in you, R,” Combeferre’s voice echoed through the corridor. “You were so calm at the hospital yesterday… I honestly didn’t think you’d resort to drinking.” 

They both looked up to find a grumpy Ferre staring down at them. Joly giggled—he fucking _giggled_. “Sorry, Ferret, that’d be my fault.” He used the floor to push himself up, staggering slightly. “Drinking has a certain edge to it that it makes you forget your losses and calm your emotions. You should try it, you’re quite can _tank_ erous sometimes.” 

“Jolllly, it seems you’re still a little tipsy!” Oh fuck, Joly had _Grantaire_ giggling, too. “You’re using your big kid vocabulary again!”

“Oh, will you two cut it out?” Combeferre swatted the medic away. “Go see Bossuet, he told me to send you to him when you woke. As for _you, Grantaire_ ,” Combeferre added as Joly started to stumble toward C Wing, “you need to get cleaned up so we can talk. Just you, me, and Courfeyrac.” 

Grantaire nodded. “Right, right. Just… shower. Right.”

He got up, and, without Combeferre’s assistance, hobbled to the showers. The only person anywhere near there was Margot, who was casually whistling. 

“Heard you and Joly drained the supply of alcohol last night,” she mentioned inadvertently. “Guess you kinda needed it. I heard about what happened to your boyfriend.” 

Taire frowned. “I’d rather not talk about him.”

She offered him a mirthless smile. “Right. Sorry about that. I was thinking about going out on a supply run later with Nissi. Want to come?”

“I think I’ll pass, Margot. Thank you, though. You’re… you’re very kind.”

A chuckle arose in her throat. “Ha. Yeah. Now, go get a shower. You smell like pathetic blanket muncher.” 

The expression on his face was priceless. “A _what?_ ”

“Just go, Grantaire.”

He shot her a quick smile before continuing along toward the bathrooms, also in E-Wing. It wasn’t a very long walk, and as soon as he got there he stripped off his booze-ridden clothes immediately, setting them aside to be washed later. Thankfully, Enjolras’s jacket was safely tucked in his bedroll back in C-Wing.

A shower can be the most soothing thing in the world if you take one at the right time. When Taire let the lukewarm water flow over his head and down his naked body, washing away the blood and alcohol, he felt… better, for a word. He cleaned out the wound on his arm like Joly had instructed him to do and scrubbed everywhere else with his one remaining hand. Washing his hair proved not to be an easy task.

“I miss you, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered toward the shower floor. It was the first time he’d said Enjolras’s name since his boyfriend’s death, and it came as a relief to him. Every time he’d tried… it’d only burned his tongue and his thoughts with memories of his lover. But at that moment, alone and broken, R said it and it almost seemed to give him hope that Enjolras was _somewhere_ , and that Grantaire _would_ get back to him.

As the water began to grow to a freezing cold temperature, the cynic stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off. He clothed himself again with a faded band tee shirt and jeans someone had left on the counter (probably Courfeyrac), and bandaged up his stump.

“Hey,” Combeferre greeted him as he came out of the bathroom with his hair still dripping wet. “Ready to talk?”

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

# ~

“ _Boss-s-s-s-suet_!”

Laigle caught sight of his tipsy lover and caught him in his thick arms as he collapsed. “I see you’ve been drinking again, Joly.”

“Drinking is… good.”

Bossuet laughed and kissed his nose. “So is _sleep_ , you idiot. Got to be at your best all the time, not hungover and tired.” 

“Who’s tired?” Joly grasped hold of the other man’s hands and began to dance with him. “I could dance to a _symphony_ right now. Dance with me, Bossuet!”

And so they danced; until Laigle tripped over his own feet and hit the floor with his back, Joly toppling on top of him. The medic smothered his lover with kisses, until Bossuet was struggling to breathe.

“You’re a big dork,” Laigle told him and kissed him again, because breathing be damned. This was his _husband_ , and he loved him. Soon, though, after Joly had finished using his mouth, he fell asleep curled up on Bossuet’s chest. The bigger man picked up the hypochondriac and carried him to their makeshift bed, laying down with him for a few minutes before getting up to attend duties in E-Wing. He didn’t leave, however, without planting a kiss on Joly’s head and whispering, “I love you.”

# ~

Grantaire decided that he hated Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s talks.

“I have a feeling that things will move much faster from here on out.”

Courfeyrac nodded at his boyfriend’s words. “He’s right. We have a dead set goal now, and a reason to do it. We also have a lead.”

Both of the other men glanced at the optimist. 

“At the hospital… I found something. I was just waiting for the right time to tell you guys. First there was Enjolras, and then you, Taire…”

“What is it?” Grantaire asked, his voice strained.

Courf pulled out a small bag of… something. It was a thick, greenish brown liquid with hints of red in it. Combeferre gently took the bag from him, examining it with his delicate brown eyes.

“Is this… mucus?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “It was being frozen for experimental usage. Back when the thing was first spreading a pair of scientists at the hospital were studying it. It looks like they came a long way on their research before…”

“We got the image, Courf,” R murmured.

“I also found these.” He pulled out a few sketches of different body parts, obviously not done by him. The drawings were awful; so distressing, in fact, that Grantaire felt the need to pull a napkin out from one of the nearby napkin bin—since they were sitting in a restaurant in C-Wing—and begin to sketch it again.

“Jesus, Taire,” Courfeyrac muttered as the cynic began to sketch out a brain significantly better than the original sketch. “How long did you have to study human anatomy to get that so perfect?”

“I picked most of it up as a dancer, actually. Not the brain, obviously, but human anatomy. School was never really good at _teaching_ art. I used to study other dancers and gymnasts while I was into that kind of stuff. The different ways the body can bend… it’s incredible.”

“Dancing?” Combeferre questioned.

“I went through many, many phases,” Grantaire hummed, continuing to replicate the drawings. “You’d be surprised at the things I can do. Hey, can you read this writing?”   
Ferre scrunched up his eyebrows, leaning in close to the original sketches. “It’s in French, I think. I can translate, but it’ll take me a moment…”

“ _La maladie se propage rapidement_ ,” Courfeyrac read aloud over his shoulder. “‘The disease spreads rapidly.’” 

Combeferre glanced at him with skepticism. “You can speak French?”

“What can I say? It’s an old hobby.” 

Taire groaned at their babbling. “What does the rest say, then, genius?”

“Umm…” He muttered the next French statement under his breath and then spoke the translation loudly. “That means something along the lines of, ‘The virus takes root in the brain and slowly kills the patient. After death, the remains of the disease animate the nervous system and a sector of the brain, allowing the body to move under the control of the disease.’”

“Simple enough,” Ferre whispered.

Courfeyrac continued. “ _Le résultat est une créature cannibale avec la seule pensée de propagation de la maladie et se nourrissant de chair humaine. Mieux reconnu dans la culture pop d'aujourd'hui comme zombies_. That’s… ‘The result is a cannibalistic creature with the only thought of spreading the disease and eating human flesh. Better known in today’s world as _‘zombies’_.’”

“See!” R exclaimed, “Listen to the cynicism in that statement! I wasn’t the only one to doubt zombies!”

“Of course you weren’t, Grantaire.”

The artist sighed.

“I want to study this,” Combeferre murmured, squishing the bag of mucus in his hand. “I _really_ want to study this. Unfortunately, we don’t have any lab supplies.”

“There’s a Biology Lab on the other side of town.” Nissi set her elbows down on the table they were gathered around. “Or a Chemistry Lab, one or the other. It should have what you need either way.”

Ferre nodded. “How long have you been listening?”

Her eyes glistened maliciously. “I’m always listening.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” R muttered sarcastically.

“Grantaire—”

The loud crash cut off Combeferre and overpowered every other noise. All four of them popped up at once and rushed through D-Wing and toward the sound. Joly, Margot, and Bahorel were already at the edge of D, and Courfeyrac saw some of the others sprinting toward them.

“Oh my god.”

“Look at _that_.”

“ _Jesus fuck._ ”

The entirety of E-Wing had collapsed, dust and dirt flying everywhere. There was no way anything could get through it or over it, and everything that had been in E-Wing had been crushed. Including most of the food, the showers, and what was left—if there was any—of the alcohol.

“Bossuet!” Joly exclaimed, turning to face the ABC. “ _WHERE’S BOSSUET?_ ”

The group was silent. Bahorel took Feuilly’s hand as Joly collapsed onto his knees and screamed. He started tearing the broken concrete away piece by piece, trying to get to Laigle.

“Joly—”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” the hypochondriac shouted as Combeferre tried to console him. “DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!”

“Ronnie was in there, too,” Nissi whispered, and Margot threw an arm around her. She shook it off.

A faint groaning came from the very edge of the building, and Grantaire began walking down to check it out. There, he found a half-crushed zombie, attempting to get out of the rubble. Taire didn’t hesitate to stab it in the head with his knife.

“I think the barricade gave way,” Combeferre deduced. “I noticed the roof cracking the other day… I didn’t think much of it. But now, I think that the barricade was the only thing supporting the structure, and something—whether it be the cadavers banging on the other side, or just a simple break, we’ll never know—broke it.”

“ _Bossuet_ ,” Joly whimpered.

“It’ll be alright,” Ferre murmured, leaning down close to him, but not touching. “It’ll all be alright. Maybe there’s a chance Laigle wasn’t in there? Why don’t you get some rest while we clean up the place and get everyone accounted for. You were up pretty late last night; some sleep might be good for you.”   
The medic nodded and stumbled away to Gate 43, where he’d set up a nice place to sleep. “Watch him,” Combeferre mouthed to Jehan, who immediately followed him.

“We should scan the wreckage,” Grantaire muttered, wiping the black zombie oil off of his knife. “We have to keep everyone in here safe, and if any _thing_ came—or will come—out of that mess, we have to clean it up now.”

“I’ll help,” Nissi said calmly. “Got nothing better to do.”

R nodded and startled to climb over the broken concrete. Bahorel, Nissi, and Éponine followed in suit.

“There’s a open room in the back—probably the bathroom,” Nissi muttered, knocking a stray pieces of concrete out of the way. “I’m gonna check it out.”

“Let me come with you,” Grantaire offered. “If there are any biters in there, I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I can handle myself—”

“I’m well aware. I just want to be there in case something goes wrong.”

It took a lot of convincing, but he finally managed to talk her into it. She brandished her sword—and, even looking right at her, Taire couldn’t figure out where the hell she kept it. He slowly raised his knife, his single hand shaking. But his hand was always shaking, nowadays, and it didn’t bother him much.

“I’m sorry about your brother.” 

Nissi shrugged. “Don’t be. The kid was a big bag of dicks. I’m _ashamed_ to be his little sister.” She paused, closing her eyes. “He deserves to be dead.”

Grantaire didn’t respond.

“I think the barricade broke long before the ceiling collapsed,” she told him, examining the cracks on the concrete as they walked. The sun was shining brightly down on them. “That was definitely the cause, yes, but I think it was a slow progression from it breaking to the actual collapse. There could’ve been enough time for Bossuet to slip into this bit—”

“Do you really believe that?” 

Nissi eyed him. “No. But that doesn’t matter, if there’s any chance he is alive.”

“That’s what I thought about Enjolras,” Grantaire murmured darkly. “I hope that Joly isn’t ever subjected to that.” 

She was silent.

“What’s your story?”

He didn’t expect an answer; he expected the glare she surely gave him.

“Why the hell should I tell you?” 

His shoulders shrugged. “Because I’m a curious dead man who won’t tell anyone? Because I won’t judge you because I can guarantee that my past is worse than yours?” 

“You keep thinking that.”

“Right.”

Grantaire pushed a piece of concrete and cleared the passageway into the small opening in the wall. It was the bathroom.

“Stay here,” he instructed, sliding behind the broken concrete. His body was thin enough to squeeze between the wall and the broken pieces of ceiling blocking the path.

She waited. Normally, she wouldn’t have let some pussy she’d recently met go without her or _instead_ of her, but she was too lazy to protest. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her Tumblr dash.

“Nissi?” After a moment, Grantaire popped his head between the skinny entrance to the bathroom. “Are you… are you on _Tumblr?_ ”

“Yes. What about it?” 

“Just… apocalypse… how?”

She grinned. “That’s for me to know, hipster boy, and you _not_ to find out.” 

R paused, thinking about the statement she just said. He shook it off. “Whatever. Just put it down, I think you should see this.” 

A sigh escaped her lips, and she shoved her phone back in her pocket and got closer to his face. “And how do you suppose I do that? You were just _barely_ able to fit through there, and you’re a skinny little shit. I’ve got _curves_.” 

Taire pressed his back against the concrete and was able to heave the piece out of the way. He held out his hand for her and smiled.

“I hate you.”

She pushed past him and strode into the bathroom. The lights in there were off, and it was pitch black. Grantaire flicked on a flashlight behind her to reveal the floor, which was stained with blood. There was a dead zombie on the ground, a knife sticking out of it’s forehead. Nissi bent down and touched the blood gently.

“It’s fairly fresh. Definitely a superior.”

“Check the second stall from the wall.”

She glanced at him, but inched toward the bathroom stall, in which he pointed the light. As she got closer, she could clearly hear a gentle groaning.

“Who is it?”

He didn’t say anything, just backed further away. Instantly, his actions gave away who was behind that door.

Nissi cut the lock with her sword, and the door shuttered open.

Slowly and unsteadily, her brother’s corpse stumbled out of the bathroom, his eyes glazed over and his skin peeling off. He didn’t charge her, but kept his distance subtly. It’s almost as if he could still process thought, and he knew it was her.

“Ronnie… you _fucker._ ”

She sliced his arms off.

“It was _your_ job to take care of _me_!” she screamed at him, cutting off his other arm. When he snarled, she shoved the sword into his chest to hold him back and drew a knife. She curled the blade in her palm. “ _YOU NEVER TOOK CARE OF ME, YOU INSUFFERABLE BASTARD_!” 

With one swift motion, she stabbed his head with her knife. She kept stabbing it, dead in the forehead, even though Ronnie’s corpse had died after the first blow to the forehead. Black oil splattered onto her face, neck, and torso. 

Silence fell over them when she stopped, her face blank. Nissi slapped her brother dead in the face.

Suddenly, a firm hand grasped her shoulder. “We need to go.”

Without saying a word, she grabbed a small can off her belt. It was a soda can, filled with a liquid substance Grantaire recognized well. She coated his body in the liquid and then lit a match, setting the body on fire.

“Yes. We need to go.”

Nissi turned and left, leaving Taire to stare at the burning cadaver.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis gains a rather adorable new member.
> 
> And lose a few others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a really hard time finishing this story, and therefore the chapters are getting a bit shorter (sorry!). There will be another short chapter following this one in no time, and then the chapters will get more lengthy.
> 
> Also, seriously, if you've gotten this far into this fic, I absolutely commend you. Thanks for reading, and I always _always_ appreciate feedback.

Bahorel kissed Feuilly’s neck gently. He held his boyfriend, the ginger’s legs wrapped around his waist. To Bahorel, nothing felt more right than holding a naked Feuilly in his arms.

“Hey.” Feuilly made a sound to acknowledge his boyfriend’s statement. “I finally got to ride your Polish dick.”

Feuilly moaned. “So you did. Did you enjoy the trip?”

The chuckle he got in response made him smile.

“I love you,” Bahorel whispered. “I love you so much.”

The two were pressed against the back wall of C-Wing, and nobody was there to bother them. Combeferre, Montparnasse, Jehan, and Éponine had gone off on a supply run nearly the second Montparnasse and Éponine emerged from the control tower; Cosette and Grantaire were off somewhere taking care of the baby arrangements, since Cosette continually grew; Joly, still heartbroken over his recently deceased husband and trying to put it out of his mind, was arguing with Courfeyrac about what to do about the collapsed ceiling in E-Wing; Nissi and Margot had disappeared—going to check out something downtown, according to Grantaire. 

So the couple was thankfully alone, giving Feuilly the opportunity to try and seduce Bahorel. The crossdresser had simply laughed at his boyfriend’s frivolous attempt. That was all it took, though, and the two then engaged in an activity they hadn’t done in a long time.

“I missed us,” Feuilly whispered. “I shouldn’t have let you go the first time.”

“I shouldn’t have denied my own feelings for you. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Bahorel, you don’t have to apologize. Just don’t leave me again.” 

A quiet, whispered promise was the last thing said between them, as their lips were too busy to speak after that.

# ~

Cosette and Grantaire sat against the wall of the Burger King, R gently stroking her bare, swollen stomach. He was absolutely mesmerized by the fact that a child was growing inside of her, and enjoyed caressing the unborn baby. Cosette didn’t mind, because she thought Grantaire was an absolute sweetheart, and she figured that he could use as much life as he could get since he was infected. Besides, his one hand was soft and defined; she completely understood why Enjolras would to stare at them all the time.

“You get bigger everyday.” 

The girl laughed. “Yeah, Taire, that’s kind of what happens when a girl is, y’know, _pregnant._ ”

R chuckled. “I _still_ can’t believe you hid _that_ from Marius for so long.” 

“You forget that I didn’t show much until just a few weeks ago, Grantaire. Baggy clothing is a blessing.”

They laughed together, but Cosette’s was cut off early.

“Oh.” She inhaled sharply as a violent pain shot into her abdomen. “Oh _shit_!”

R surged upwards and away from her. “What is it? Are you alright?”

“Well, either I just pissed my pants, or—” She groaned as another pain bellowed into her pelvis. “—my water just broke.” 

“Is that even possible? I mean… you’re only what, four months? Can you even—”

“ _It’s called early labor, you dickbag_!” she shouted, gripping his arm. “Would you please go get Joly?”

He nodded, breaking her grip easily. It wasn’t a long sprint to where Joly was sure to be in D-Wing, no longer arguing with Courfeyrac but stroking his engagement ring. Grantaire carefully explained the situation to the medic and froze up when Joly’s only response was, “Uh oh,” before hurrying off. He could really go into serious mode quickly. Taire dutifully followed.

But something stopped the cynic cold. His vision became red, his palm sweaty, and the red coat felt heavy on his shoulders as a voice in his head hissed, “ _Enjolras_ ,” again and again.

He felt Joly’s hands on his chest, shoving him hard in attempt on pulling him back to reality. Finally, Taire was able to get one word out from between his dry, chapped lips: “ _Go._ ” 

At once he felt Joly’s body heat leave, and Grantaire was left to fight for himself. _Why now?_ he thought. _Why now, when Cosette needs all the emotional support she can get?_

And, with one last attempt at breaking the attack, R passed out, falling backward and slamming his head on the floor.

# ~

It was a cool evening, rain falling gently from the sky, and the cadavers on the ground were momentarily inanimate. Margot and Nissi both clutched the thin structuring of the Eiffel Tower, the moonlight shining threateningly above them. Nissi was winning in their climb to the top.

“This is very possibly the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” Margot laughed, dodging pieces of the Tower that had broken off. “Climbing the collapsing Eiffel Tower. Genius!”

Nissi touched the top of the Tower (which was sagging lower than normal because of its broken state) and cheered. “Beat that, bitch!”

“I have to say, I’m impressed.”

They both slid to the ground on the structuring. It’s easier said than done, but the two fell down with snickers arising in their throats. 

“So, my friend—” Margot drew a sword from her belt. “Up for a duel?”

“That depends. Are you challenging me?”

“Of course.”

Nissi winked and pulled her sword out. “You’re welcome to lose.”

“Bring it.”

The awkward girl parried Nissi’s first strike and pushed her back. With a bloody lip, she stood up again, laughing.

“Now it’s on.” 

It began to rain harder as Nissi charged Margot. The two fought delicately, but with a force; obviously their friendship wasn’t holding them back. A cut tore into Margot’s skin, ripping her red sweater and causing her to bleed. She didn’t seem to notice, just kept trying to defend herself.

Finally, Margot’s sword got buried into Nissi’s chest, and she fell backward with the sword sticking out of her. It suddenly dawned on Margot as to what she’d done.

“Nissi?”

No response.

“Oh, shit.”

Margot turned as she heard a gun cock behind her. She couldn’t see it, or even tell who or _what_ it was, but she just shrugged. 

“Suck my knob.”

The bullet barreled into her forehead, and she was thrown against the side of the Eiffel Tower, blood falling from the kill wound in her forehead.

# ~

“Hey, ugly.”

Grantaire pried his eyes open to find Courfeyrac grinning down at him. He had an odd amount of sweat beading up on his forehead and blood covering his hands. 

“Were you talking to me or yourself?”

“Ouch. That one hurt.” The optimist paused, his smile wavering. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just a thing. I’ve got completely control over it. Um… how long was I out? Did Joly get to Cosette in time? Was the baby actually born or was it just a false alarm? Is _Cosette_ okay?”

“Hey, calm down, man, one question at a time. You were unconscious for about eleven hours, in which time Cosette gave birth to a beautiful, premature baby girl. As for Cosette…”

“You trailed off,” R exclaimed with urgency in his voice as he sat up. “Why did you trail off?” 

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “Can you even walk?”

The painter was already up before he finished his sentence. He was striding through the room when he asked, “Where is she?” 

Courf sighed and reluctantly led him into the medical tent in C-Wing. Cosette was lying on a table, a blanket thrown over her bare legs. She looked tired, bloody, and… dead. But she was breathing gently, which somewhat reassured R.

Joly stood in the corner holding a small blanket in his arms. A tube ran out of the fold on the side and was attached to an oxygen tank. He rocked the blanket softly, his eyes calm and steady for the first time since Bossuet’s death. In fact, he was so involved in this little blanket that he didn’t notice Grantaire and Courfeyrac enter the room; Cosette did.

“T…Taire?”

He rushed to her, grabbing her limp, cold hand and squeezing it tight. Courf stood behind him and watched her carefully.

“You’re not looking so hot.”

She tried to dismiss the comment with a chuckle, but almost choked. “I could say the same thing about you.”

Grantaire glanced at Joly. “She’s not going to make it, is she?”

The expression on the medic’s face told him everything he needed to know.

“I’m sorry, R,” she whispered, turning his attention back to her. “I wish I could help you find the cure… I know that’s what you’ve wanted to do. I’m sorry.” Cosette didn’t let him reply before she continued by turning to Courfeyrac. “I want you and Combeferre to take my child and care for her. You’d be the best parents she could ever have, and that’s all I want for her.”

Courfeyrac nodded, wiping a tear from his eye.

She wheezed, and Joly came over to remove Grantaire’s hand from her arm. “Leave her be,” he told R with melancholy in his voice. “There’s nothing we can do for her.”

“Goodnight,” Cosette whispered, her eyes sparkling with tears. “Take care of my baby, and, for God’s sake, take care of yourselves.”

And she died, her eyes sparkling with sincerity from her last request.

# ~

Combeferre and the others who’d gone on the supply run came back around midnight.

Well, most of them came back, that is.

Éponine was stone-faced, a black top hat sitting on her ratty brown hair. The strong girl didn’t have tears in her eyes, but clutched Montparnasse’s bloody black coat with a terrifying intensity. 

“He’s dead,” she whispered at Grantaire’s expression. 

“So is Cosette,” he told her sadly. “She went into early labor. Joly saved the baby.”

“Where is it?”

Courfeyrac walked out behind him, cradling the a baby blanket in his arms. Joly sauntered behind him, dragging the oxygen tank.

“She won’t have to use the tank forever,” Joly told them as they all strained to tried to get a look inside the blanket. “In fact, her life force is pretty substantial. She could probably live without it in a few days time. Maybe less.”

“Her? What’s her name?”

Courf turned the blanket so the tiny baby’s face was visible to the group. “Cosette died before she could name her. I’ve just been calling her Baby.” 

“She named Courf and Combeferre the adoptive parents,” Joly informed them, smiling. “So I guess that’s your bit.”

Ferre came closer to the child. He stroked her little face and saw his smile reflected in her bright brown eyes. “I’ve… I’ve got a name.”

Courfeyrac snuggled the baby closer to his boyfriend. “You’re her father—one of them, anyway. Tell me what you think.”

“I was… kind of thinking of our predicament. And what Cosette, Marius, Montparnasse, Bossuet, Ronnie, Gavroche, Valjean, and Enjolras lost their lives for. I was thinking… Victoire.”

The optimist smiled. “For victory. Yes, I love it.”

Even Éponine, clearly still upset over Montparnasse’s death, cracked a smile at sight of the baby.

“Baby Victoire,” Grantaire cooed, gazing at her. “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (My OCs were meant to die anyway. As for Les Amis... well, bad things happen. I'm so sorry.)
> 
> (Also, my OCs were originally meant to be comedic aspects and were actually based on some friends of mine. Thanks to Maggie and Jocelyn for allowing me to kill your characters, Margot and Nissi, even if it was a more humorous death. I'm trying to lighten up this depressing sack of a fic, and I think (hope) those characters helped.)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author most definitely did not get through this chapter without crying.

Two days later, the airport collapsed.

All of them knew it was going to happen. They just didn’t expect it so soon.

It had been a fine afternoon; it didn’t _seem_ like anything was going to go wrong. Victoire had gotten out of her oxygen tank and was functioning fairly well—for a premature baby with limited medical supplies, that is. Joly was checking her status every hour on the hour, but otherwise, Courfeyrac and Combeferre took good care of her. Everyone in the ABC wanted to see the baby girl, and stopped by often. Especially Grantaire.

They were all wondering where Nissi and Margot had gone off too, but none of them could go outside the airport grounds. Many of the zombies were clawing at the fences, having been awoken by thunder, probably. 

Most everyone just assumed they were dead, and that—if by some chance they weren’t—they’d find their own way back.

Cracks had started to form along the concrete walls of the airport, which everyone was oblivious to.

“The baby’s cute,” Bahorel told Grantaire while they were watching Victoire the afternoon of the collapse. “Marius’s puppy face looks good on her.”

“It sure does.” 

“Kinda… brings some light into this world,” the crossdresser commented. “It’s so dark and gloomy… with everyone dying, the world ending, and shit.”

“Right.”

“Are you thinking about Enjolras?”

“I always think about Enjolras, Bahorel.” 

A faint smile crossed over his face. “Yeah. That’s how I’d be if I lost Feuilly.”

The ceiling rumbled. Grantaire glanced upwards and saw how much the ceiling was cracking.

“Oh shit,” he muttered. “This place is gonna go down. Sooner rather than later.”

“We should get everyone out.”

“Yeah. Go start, I’ll get the baby and her stuff.” 

“With one hand?”

“Just _go_!”

Taire began collecting the few possessions the baby owned and his own, shoved it all in a backpack, and threw it on his back. With his one good arm, he picked up baby Victoire and tried his best to carry her toward the exit.

“Combeferre!” he shouted as the bookworm saw him rushing. “Place is gonna collapse! Get everyone out!”

“ _Combeferre, we’ve got a problem_!” 

Courfeyrac’s screams were heard throughout D-Wing and he wrestled a zombie off of him. They’d climbed over the collapsed E-Wing and were coming at the survivors quickly.

“GET OUT!” Ferre shouted, shooting the corpse on Courf dead in the forehead. “EVERYONE GET OUT!” 

He relieved Grantaire of Victoire and began to sprint—carefully—toward the exit. R looked for the others to make sure they were coming, but was tackled by a cadaver. He held it back with his shoulder, desperately attempting to reach the knife on his belt. Finally, he gave up and pushed the zombie over with his own strength and repetitively smashed its head into floor. There was oil all over his hand and shirt, but he ignored it. 

“Let’s go,” Courfeyrac hissed from behind him, tugging on his shoulder. “Quickly.” 

The two ran away from there, not looking back. All Courf—and Grantaire, to an extent—could do was hope the others got out safely and try to avoid the undead. 

Taire was careful in running, as his bandage had come undone from being attacked. Thankfully, new skin had already started to stretch across his amputated arm, but the slightest disturbance could tear it up again.

“ _AHHH!_ ”

R stopped running immediately and turned toward the loud scream, which was emitted from Bahorel. The crossdresser was standing by the gate, his arms torn off and in the mouth of a corpse. He made eye contact with Grantaire for only a moment before his body fell limp, dead from blood loss.

Éponine saw him collapse, and used her revolver to shoot him in the head without mercy. It was the better thing to do, and Taire had the very faint thought of a crossdressing zombie, but pushed it out of his mind in a second.

“GO!” ‘Ponine screamed at the top of her lungs, abandoning Bahorel’s body.

Everything that happened after Bahorel’s death was a blur to all three of them. The next thing their minds processed was that they were outside the gate in a white Parisian SUV Combeferre had started. Grantaire faintly registered that Feuilly and Jehan were in the car, as well.

They drove off, Victorie held delicately in Courfeyrac’s lap, and the herd groaned and continued to grow behind them.


	18. Chapter 18

They drove in silence. That is, until Victoire squealed. 

Well, the sound that slipped from between her tiny lips resembled a squeal. Courf hugged her closer, surprised that she’d made her first sound since she was born.

“She’s developing better than I thought,” Joly muttered, leaning over the seat. He was squished in between Feuilly and Jehan; Éponine and Grantaire were lounging in the trunk. “It’s quite astonishing, considering I barely expected her to live.”

“Can we focus on the issue at hand?” Combeferre was scowling. Every bit of life had been beaten out of him, his tiredness taking over. Even though his adoptive daughter’s name meant victory, Ferre felt pretty defeated. “We need a place to reside.”

“How long before that herd catches up with us?” Éponine questioned.

“They were moving pretty slow,” Grantaire replied as he closed his eyes. “It’ll probably take awhile. Gives us more time to set up a refuge.”   
“We need to get to that lab Nissi was talking about. It’s our best bet for studying that sample Courfeyrac snagged from the hospital.”

Jehan nodded at Combeferre’s comment, but murmured, “We just lost the best place we could possibly have had over here.”

“We can recover quickly,” Éponine reassured them.

Grantaire snorted. 

Feuilly sighed. “Guys, I… I’m…” 

“Sorry about Bahorel.” Joly smiled sympathetically. “I understand the fee—”

“No, it’s… uh, not about Bahorel.”

The ginger still did not look up, but kept his gaze fixed on the floor of the SUV. Grantaire noticed for the first time that he was clutching his stomach. 

“What is it?” Jehan asked obliviously.

“I… on my way out of the airport, one of those _things_ —zombies, whatever—grabbed my leg and… and bit into my stomach.” He pulled his arm away to let Joly see a gapping wound in his abdomen. It was clearly a bite.

Taire sat up, his eyes alert. “Feuilly…”

“Please, just… I want to do it myself.” He sighed. “As soon as we get to the lab. I don’t want to cause any harm to any of you.”

Combeferre nodded from the driver’s seat. “I should be able to find it pretty soon. Nissi said that it was on the other side of town, so I scavenged through some of the maps at the airport. I found the general location.” 

The group went back to complete silence. Grantaire had pulled out his gun and was messing with the ammunition, prepared to give it to Feuilly when the time came. Éponine grazed her fingers along Montparnasse’s hat, which she had been wearing since she returned from the supply run. Taire suddenly had the idea to ask her what happened. Quietly, of course—no need concerning Feuilly with more thoughts of death.

“I didn’t see. It was an instantaneous death… one of those fuckers tore his heart out. Combeferre put him down.”

“You didn’t?”

“You didn’t have to see his body. It was a mess… worse than any death I’ve ever seen, and I used to live in the Thérnardier household. You know my parents.” 

R nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“You put down Enjolras.”

He breathed deeply. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But when you see your boyfriend _dying_ and insisting that _you’re_ the one to shoot him… I didn’t feel I had much choice. It was Enj’s wish.”

‘Ponine sighed. “Our lives are fucked up.”

Taire pulled out a small bottle of tequila out of his jean’s pocket. “I’ll drink to that.”   
“Hit me.”

He drank some before handing it to her. She then passed it to Joly, who had held his hand out expectantly at her last statement. He gave it to Feuilly, who offered some to Courfeyrac.

“You guys are setting a bad example for Victoire!” he exclaimed, before taking it and drinking the last bit. Combeferre slapped him on the shoulder, still keeping one hand on the steering wheel.

“Quiet!” Ferre hissed, shutting off the engine. “We’re here.”

He gently pushed open the door and, after standing, took Victoire from Courf. She hadn’t made another sound since her first squeal, and they were all thankful for that, at the moment. Having a screaming baby can suck during the apocalypse. 

They all followed him into the building; even Feuilly, who, without a doubt, was infected. Bags were forming under his eyes, his skin was becoming cold and pale. He was dying.

Courfeyrac readied his gun, and Grantaire behind him. Joly and Éponine secured the doors after they’d gotten in, and began to block them the best they could.

The lab was a small, one-roomed building. It was filled with equipment that was perfect for Ferre’s research, and there were no cadavers in the room that they could see.

“This isn’t a suitable place to make camp,” Joly murmured, shivering at the blood on the wall; the lab definitely wasn’t clean. 

“Agreed,” Combeferre said, cradling Victoire to his chest.

“I saw a bell tower back that way?” Jehan suggested. “The height might come as an advantage.”

Courf nodded. “Sounds like a plan. It’s kinda close to here, too, so we can come and work whenever possible.”

“Before we go…” Grantaire put the gun in Feuilly’s hand. “You need to do it quickly, mate. You’re not gonna be around much longer.” 

“When did you become psychic, Taire?” Jehan asked.

“I can tell when the disease is gonna take someone because it’s currently coursing through my veins. Besides, look at the man. He’s a walking corpse—forget I just said that,” he added quickly.

Feuilly nodded. “You’re right. Would you do the honor of dragging my body out of here, Grantaire?”

The cynic held up his one hand and stump, his eyes questioning. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Would you guys… I don’t want you to see this.”

Courfeyrac nodded before taking Combeferre’s free hand and leading him back to the SUV. Jehan, Éponine, and Joly followed in suit.

“Goodbye, Feuilly.”

The ginger sighed as he put the gun to his temple. “Goodbye, Grantaire. Take care of them; they need you. And, uh, not to be a downer or anything, but…” He smiled. “See you again soon.”

The bullet lodged into his brain, and he fell backward with blood spurting from his kill wound.

Taire knelt at his body and began to drag him out of the lab. “Hopefully, Feuilly. Hopefully.”

# ~

“This is nice.” 

It wasn’t; it was depressing, and the bell didn’t even work. But a dreary bell tower was better than a bloody science lab without any room to spread out.

It was nearing nightfall by the time they got settled into the tower’s interior. Combeferre yawned and curled up next to his boyfriend after putting Victoire into a crib they stole from a local store. Jehan shrunk into the corner with his journal and scribbled away. Éponine started playing with Victoire since neither of the two girls were asleep yet. 

Grantaire had his hand on the plexiglass window of the tower, feeling to cool night air through the glass. As winter approached, everything had been getting colder, and nights were absolutely terrible. Daytime was at least tolerable.

“You’re not tired?” Joly asked him, leaning on the wall next to the window. 

Taire shrugged.

“You’re getting worse, aren’t you?” 

“Continually.”

The medic examined his friend’s body. “You look fine.”

“Yeah. But I… I haven’t been able to sleep much. Or eat. And the only thing I’ve really drunk in the last few days is that little bit of tequila.” 

“Have you tried?”

“Yeah. The last time I ate I puked.”

Joly sighed. “I’m sorry, R. I wish I could tell you that it’ll get better.” 

They were silent for a few minutes, the only noise in the room being Jehan’s pencil scratchings and Combeferre’s soft snoring. Courfeyrac didn’t snore, they found out, but he liked to mutter in his sleep. 

“I’m gonna get to sleep before I have to listen to another one of Courf’s nightmares,” Joly whispered, turning away from Grantaire. “Get some, too, if you can.”

After watching his friends sleep while he couldn’t for the past few nights, he picked up on each of their sleeping habits. Combeferre snored, Courfeyrac muttered and so did Joly, except Joly mostly talked about Bossuet or something from his old medical textbooks that Taire didn’t understand. Éponine moved a lot; one time, she kicked the wall on accident and woke up from the pain in her foot. Jehan was pretty normal when he slept, the problem was he hardly slept at all. Grantaire didn’t understand how he could be so pleasant and happy all the time when he was up writing late into the night. Feuilly used to sleep walk. Bahorel would scratch at himself throughout the night. 

He started thinking about Enjolras’s sleeping ticks: every night, Apollo would curl around him like he was a body pillow. Once, Enj admitted that, before Grantaire, he would curl around the pillows on his bed.

Then Taire began thinking about every little thing Enjolras every did. How he used to twitch his eye at the sound of someone being discriminatory, how he would stomp on a zombie’s face to protect his friends, how he would stare at Grantaire’s hands all the time and then deny it as he blushed furiously, how he loved to touch Grantaire, how he kissed Grantaire—

These thoughts just brought R grief, and he had to silence his brain. No Enjolras, he told it, and then sighed out loud.

“I don’t want this to be a dream,” he said to himself, and Jehan looked up at his words. ‘Ponine had gone to sleep. “Because if it’s a dream, then I dreamt about Enjolras. This can’t be a dream.”

“It’s not a dream.” Jehan had gotten up and walked over to him. “Trust me, it’s not a dream. Not even nightmares can be as cruel as life has been to us.”

It was only an instinct that Grantaire grabbed Jehan’s hand. It had been so long since Taire had listened to Prouvaire’s poetry that he’d forgotten what a fantastic writer he was. Jehan always knew exactly what to say, and exactly how to word it in a fashion that made him want to either cry or be happy again. At that moment, R was on the verge of tears.

“Fuck life.” 

“Yes, indeed,” Jehan agreed. “ _Fuck life_.”

# ~

Jehan hated baby duty.

Most days, Combeferre would go over to the lab and take two or three of the others with him. And the other two that were left behind had to watch Victoire. It’s not necessarily that Jehan didn’t like Victoire—cause she was pretty fucking adorable—but he always had the feeling of if-I-drop-this-baby-or-screw-up-in-any-way-she-could-die, and he didn’t favor having that feeling.

Éponine and Courfeyrac helped him out a lot when they were stuck on baby duty together, but Grantaire was pretty much hopeless. He’d never really handled babies before, especially a week old, premature baby. Joly would barely let Jehan touch Victoire when they were paired together.

He never really got to go to the lab that much, which was probably a smart decision. He wouldn’t be much help to them in a lab.

It was pretty dull for that time period, though. Once, Jehan got so bored, he considered going out and just randomly killing cadavers solely for entertainment.

“Jehan, I’m _bored_.” 

“Me too, Grantaire.”

They cynic thought for a moment. “Wanna play patty cake?”

“Are you serious?”

He just kept smiling.

“Fuck you. Let’s do it.”

It was rather odd when Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Éponine walked in on the two of them playing patty cake while Joly rocked Victoire to sleep.

# ~

“What’ve you found?”

Combeferre was examining the sketches of the brain in the lab one afternoon, with Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Éponine were helping him out around the lab, mostly just cleaning up. Joly and Jehan were back at the bell tower watching the baby. 

“It’s a very clever virus,” Ferre speculated, moving to a sample of an infected’s brain that he had acquired. “I can’t figure out how the hell it originated, though. It seems that it just came out of nowhere, and the doctors didn’t have a clue what to do. It spread too quickly for them to study it, and most of the scientists didn’t have enough strength to fight them off. We’re lucky.”

“Incredibly lucky,” Courfeyrac agreed.

“If I can just find out how it originated, I might be able to concoct a cure for it. Unfortunately, finding the origin is the most _difficult_ task we could ensue.”

“What makes the zombies do the thing?” Éponine asked.

“There are only two basic parts of the brain that are activated in reanimation: the Temporal Lobe and the Frontal Lobe, which controls hearing processes and muscle movements. The spinal cord is also activated in the transformation. It wipes away every other function, like emotion, thought, et cetera. There isn’t really a human left in there; it just takes control of the body and uses it for its own purposes.”

“English, please?” Grantaire questioned with an eye roll. 

Combeferre ignored him. “Give me time. That’s all I need.”

“Let’s go ahead and get back, I want to make sure Joly hasn’t quarantined Victoire,” Courfeyrac muttered, fingering one of the samples. Ferre slapped his hand away. “What? You can’t tell me he wouldn’t do that if she spit up on him.”

“Unfortunately, my boyfriend is probably— _probably_ —right.” 

Grantaire pushed the window open with his knife. “The zombies are remotely inanimate right now. We can go if you’d like—now’d be the perfect time.”

A crash echoed from the other half of the room that had been blocked off by a curtain. Nothing had been back there; Joly had fashioned it to act as his medical space (and he’d scrubbed the floor for hours on end disinfecting it), and it wasn’t used for anything besides Joly and his medical stuff. Courfeyrac was the first one to yank back the curtain, pulling the rod down in the process. 

Joly was on the floor, the table where he watched over his “patients” turned over and on top of him. The abnormally sharp edge of the table had cut his body in half, and a zombie was casually munching on the lower half of his body, probably having emerged from a small closet that had been locked when they’d gotten there. Grantaire lodged a bullet into its brain, and they ran over to find the medic still alive.

But it wasn’t pretty.

“Why did you come?” Ferre asked, leaning down toward his the upper half of his body.

“Bored… Jehan could take care of… baby. Needed to check on medical… stuff. It seems… I got in a… little… accident.” 

Courfeyrac choked back a sob. “Yeah, we can see that, buddy.” 

“Going to… die. Too many of… dead. I’ll join… friends… heaven. Think… they’ll be… glad to… see?”

Courf gripped Joly’s hand, but the medic silently summoned Taire.

“You… favor?”

Grantaire knelt and nodded. “Anything, Joly.”

“Shoot… head.”

Ferre’s lip quivered.

“Of course.” He reloaded his gun. Joly made an attempt to nod, but failed. Taire got the message and stood up, aiming his gun at the medic’s forehead. 

“I’m coming… Bossuet,” Joly whispered.

R’s finger hesitated on the trigger. He let one tear roll down his cheek before whispering, “See you soon.”

And he pulled it, Joly’s blood splattering from the impact. Éponine leaned down and pulled his eyelids over his eyes, so bright and staring up at them like he was still a child, even in death. She did it like she’d done it before, and, considering all that had happened in the last month, she probably had. Standing up, she adjusted Montparnasse’s hat stiffly.

“What’re we going to do now?” 

Taire looked at her. “What do you mean?” 

His voice was oddly monotone, void of all emotion and expression. His answer didn’t come from ‘Ponine, but from Combeferre.

“We’re down to five. _Five_. And Joly was… Jesus, I can’t do this right now.”

Courfeyrac took his hand. “Let’s go. It’s been a long day, and Jehan doesn’t know what’s going on. And he’s _alone_ with _Victoire_.”

Ferre nodded. “Yeah. But, uh… what are we gonna do… about his—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Grantaire volunteered. “Go back, I’ll catch up with you in a minute. I may not do it as good as Joly would, but…”

“Let me help you.” Éponine’s voice covered Courfeyrac’s, who tried to stop R from staying. “It’ll go faster.”

Grantaire nodded and began to pick up Joly’s shoulders, instructing ‘Ponine to take his feet. Combeferre dragged Courf out of there before the man started crying.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author tries not to make her readers cry, but (probably) fails, as she ends up crying herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I am so so sorry._

“Combeferre?”

The couple was curled up on the floor of the bell tower after Éponine and Grantaire had returned. Everyone was asleep, although Grantaire was probably just pretending. Ferre turned his head the slightest, but didn’t achieve much since he was engulfed in Courf’s embrace. “Yes?”

“We’re not going to beat this, are we?” Courfeyrac shook his head when his boyfriend didn’t respond immediately. “Grantaire’s been getting worse—you can’t deny it—and there’s only five of us left, plus the baby. We’re stranded in a bell tower in an overrun city and running low on resources.” 

“Courf—”

“We’ve lost everyone, Combeferre! Even if we find or create a cure we’ll have no one left! There’s _nothing_ we can do to bring them back.” 

Courfeyrac was on the verge of sobbing, and Ferre couldn’t deny that he, too, just wanted to start bawling. But he had to put on a brave face for his love.

“We’ve got each other,” he whispered gently. “We’ve got Cosette’s baby. We’ve got Éponine, and Jehan. And Taire isn’t going to stop fighting until we find a fucking cure. We might be able to save him—”

“Joly already said that _if_ we find a cure, it won’t save him. Whatever the outcome, Grantaire _will not_ survive. Besides, even if it _did_ save him, I don’t think he particularly wants to be saved. Grantaire’s done his time, lived and fought for so long with and without Enj; he doesn’t want to live without his Apollo. And he— _we_ —may not be all that religious, but if there’s any chance at all that he can get back to the person he loves… he’s gonna do it. I understand. If you got killed, I’d take every chance I could to get to you if there was even the slightest possibility you were still… alive, in some way.”

A silence passed between them; Combeferre broke it. “I always expected Enjolras to be the last of us to die,” he admitted, “if we were ever put in that situation. He was so goddamn stubborn.”

“That he was. So is Grantaire.” Courfeyrac glanced at R’s figure, which was silhouetted beautifully by the night’s sky as he lay close to Éponine. “That’s how I know for a fact, one way or another, he’ll get back to Enjolras.”

# ~

Courfeyrac couldn’t decide which was worse: his dreams or reality. Both of them were a wasteland filled with corpses. In his dreams, he saw Enjolras, and Gavroche, and Marius, and everyone who had died. In reality, he saw Grantaire dying, and all of his living friends becoming zombies; his hallucinations were horrific. 

He was still curled up in Combeferre’s arms, not being able to fall asleep. Grantaire had gotten up as soon as Ferre had started snoring, and he stood gazing out the window. He often spent nights standing by that window since he couldn’t will himself to sleep.

Jehan had awoken nearly a half hour before, but hadn’t moved enough to catch Taire’s attention. Éponine was fidgeting in her sleep, and she slept close to the window. Ever since she and R had returned from burning Joly’s body, they had formed an odd bond.

Suddenly, Grantaire moved. He shrunk down into the corner and curled in on himself. He looked like a child, with his bright green eyes innocent and sickly. Courf never thought he’d describe _Grantaire_ as looking innocent, but he couldn’t deny it in that moment. Courfeyrac suddenly wanted to leave Combeferre’s embrace and wrap his arms around R. He looked so alone and depressed.

Just as he was seriously thinking about moving, Ferre shot up abruptly. The bookworm began gathering his stuff loudly, thus waking all of the others except for baby Victoire. 

“Jesus Christ, what’s going on?” 

Combeferre continued to bustle around, muttering incoherently under his breath. “Formula… thought… dream… cure…” 

“FERRE! USE YOUR BIG BOY WORDS!”

Taire’s shout instantly shook Combeferre back into reality. He turned and stared right at the cynic, with a look of great intelligence and knowledge. 

“I dreamt of the formula for the cure. I… I can create the antidote!” 

Grantaire, while remaining completely silent, grabbed Combeferre’s shoulders and grinned. He then released Ferre and picked up his revolver from the table, and rushed down the stairs of the tower, casually shouting, “Well, come on, then!”

Jehan rushed down in suit, and Courfeyrac, taking his boyfriend’s hand, sprinted after them. Éponine snatched Victoire—delicately—from her crib, cradling the sleeping baby to her chest. 

It was incredibly exhilarating, running down the streets of post-apocalyptic Paris with a wild grin on his face. Grantaire knew he shouldn’t of; he was already feeling sick and weak, but he couldn’t help it. When they reached the lab, though, he just about kicked himself for it. His queasiness had worsened, and he felt more tired than ever. That didn’t stop him from practically kicking down the door to the lab. 

“What do you need?” he asked as Combeferre started working. “What can I get you?”

“Just calm down, Grantaire. Rest. You look ill.”

Taire’s fever was rising at a quick rate. His headache was growing worse, his vision was becoming blurry, and his hand was shaking unkindly hard. He found it difficult to catch his breath.

“Grantaire?” Ferre rushed over to him, dropping what he was doing. “Are you alright?”

R doubled over, coughing. By then, he’d caught Éponine, Courfeyrac, and Jehan’s attention too. They ran over to him.

“I… I can’t.”

Éponine shot a glance at Ferre before gingerly giving the baby to Jehan and easing Taire into a lying position on the ground. 

“Please, Grantaire,” Combeferre begged. “We’re so close. Is there any way you can hold on just a little bit longer?” 

R smiled. “Your cure can’t heal the dead, Ferre. You know that. And I’ve been… been dead for a long time.”

‘Ponine pitied him for a moment and gave him a brief hug, in which the cynic coughed from the pressure. 

“Damn, Taire,” she whispered, taking his hand. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“You can.” 

The coolness of the metal made it clear what the object was that he was handing her. She gulped, but took the handgun.

“Soon as I’m dead, understand?”

She nodded.

“Thank you.”

Courfeyrac tried his best to keep himself composed. He’d been preparing for Grantaire’s death for a long time, but when it actually came around, it was hard for him to accept.

“Y’know that song… you and Enjolras used to sing back at… at the Musain?”

Ferre nodded. “ _Red and Black_. Of course, I remember.” 

“I think I… I see the meaning, now,” he whispered, his voice growing soft and dry. A trickle of blood ran down his chin from the side of his mouth. “ _Red, the blood of angry men… Black, the dark of ages past… Red, a world about to dawn… Black, the night… that ends… at last_!”

He closed his eyes, darkness overwhelming him. He knew in that moment that he wasn’t living, nor dead, nor unconscious. He was a mixture of all three. But he still heard his friends’ conversation clear as day.

“Do you… want to look away?” Éponine’s soft soprano voice asked. “I know he was your friend.”

“He was yours, too.”

“Yeah, but he asked me to do it.”

Grantaire could almost hear Ferre nod and turn his head, and he could definitely hear the single tear that ran down ‘Ponine’s cheek as she loaded the bullet into the chamber.

Death wasn’t something he had particularly wanted to experience. Never had the painter thought that in his life, but after the apocalypse started and Enjolras entered his life as a love relationship, his attitude had changed. Taire had fought as long as he could to hold onto the little bit of life he had left. But, the disease had spread, and was killing him. Either way, whether ‘Ponine shot him or not, he’d be dead within a minute.

Upon opening his eyes again, his mortal body dead, he was greeted with a surprise. He was there. _Him_. Holding out his hand with impatience dancing in his dreamy blue eyes. The circles under those eyes had vanished from the last time Grantaire had seen him, and he was less corpse-like. The beautiful man was the most beautiful R had ever seen him.

“Do you permit it?” Enjolras questioned quietly, a smile spreading across his face. 

“Take me home, my angel,” the cynic whispered. “Let me rejoin you.”

Suddenly, he stood and advanced toward the man. Seeing his broken, dead body was interesting, of course, but Grantaire was entirely focused on Enjolras. He stopped right before his one and only love.

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Apollo told him. “You followed my wishes, and you have done well. Thank you for having a desire to live.” 

Taire beamed. “Anything for you. Tell me… what’s heaven like?”

Enj chuckled. “Do you want to find out?”

The cynic didn’t hesitate. He gripped Enjolras’s hand and grinned from the feeling of being whole—especially after regaining his other hand—and… well, _alive_ , ironically.

He felt no pain when Éponine, completely alive and close to sobbing, shot his corpse in the head. His hands didn’t shake, he didn’t crave alcohol or drugs; he craved Enjolras, his friends—or rather, for a better word, his family. Enjolras kissed his cheek, and led him away from his death scene, into the world beyond.

# ~

Staring at Grantaire’s corpse made Éponine think about the last true conversation she’d had with him.

_“He’s lighter than I imagined.”_

_Éponine and Grantaire carried Joly’s body away from the Chemistry lab. ‘Ponine watched Taire the entire time as he carefully maneuvered his late friend around._

_“You don’t smile much anymore, R. It’s a shame, too—you have a beautiful smile.”_

_Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you… flirting with me?”_

_“Like hell. I’m merely pointing out that you have a nice smile.”_

_“Right.”_

_They gently set Joly’s corpse down outside of the lab and Taire lit a match, throwing it on Joly. Flames curled up from his body._

_“You did that really well for a guy with only one arm.”_

_He shrugged. “I’ve adjusted well.”_

_“That’s good. That you’ve adapted. I mean, who wants to be disabled in a zombie apocalypse, you know what I mean? That must suc—”_

_“What’s bothering you, Éponine?”_

_She glared at him accusingly. “What makes you think that something’s wrong?”_

_R rolled his eyes. “Please. I know you, ‘Ponine. I know when you’re anxious about something. You talk more than usual.”_

_“I honestly don’t know whether to be offended or not.”_

_“C’mon. Tell me what’s up.”_

_She tapped her foot nervously. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”_

_“Jesus Christ, we’re not in middle school.”_

_“Just… just promise you won’t tell them. This is really important, Grantaire.”_

_He paused for a moment before nodding. “Alright. You have my word. Now tell me!”_

_“I may have a problem with mipcolfh a pebhcjf.”_

_“Sorry, you kinda trailed off there. Did you just say _missing_ a _period_?” _

_Éponine looked away._

_“You’re _pregnant_?”_

_“I don’t know for sure, yet.” She scowled. “Please don’t tell anyone! It’s just a late period… it’s probably nothing.”_

_“Did you and Montparnasse have sex?”_

_She scratched her ear._

_“You know, I was the first person Cosette told about her baby. Besides Marius, of course. I’ve had this conversation before.” He patted Éponine’s head like she was a child, and the height difference between them made her seem like one. “Do what you have to. I’ll support you either way.”_

_“God, Taire, I don’t even know if I’m actually pregnant!” The word burnt her tongue. “Just… give me some time. And don’t tell the others.” She paused. “Damn, I was so _stupid!_ We didn’t need another baby, much less another chance of what happened to Cosette.”_

_“Victoire is pretty damn cute, though, you gotta admit that.”_

_“All babies are fucking cute, Grantaire. But not when you might have one growing in your stomach!”_

_“Maybe so. But you’ll get through it. I know you.”_

_Éponine leaned into him, her wild hair flying everywhere. She used a hand to hold onto Parnasse’s hat._

_“Montparnasse would know what to do.”_

_“Perhaps. I wish he was here. Hell, I wish everyone we’ve lost was here, including Joly.”_

_She smirked, and hugged onto his chest tighter. “You know what I just realized, Taire? You’re such a fucking sweetheart.”_

_The expression on his face was absolutely priceless. Sure, everyone thought about how much of a sweetheart Grantaire was, but nobody had ever actually told him (besides Enjolras), even if it was the truth. Which it was. And Éponine thought he should finally know._

And there she was, crying over his dead body. They were on the cusp of finding a cure to the fucking zombie problem and he _had_ to die. She knew it wasn’t really his fault, but she couldn’t help but be angry at him.

“Let’s finish this,” Combeferre growled, returning to the lab. “For Grantaire.”

There was a banging on the door, and the lock almost sprung open. Without a doubt, it was multiple cadavers, having heard the ruckus and smelled the beautiful scent of blood. 

“Éponine, help me hold the door!” Courf ordered, pushing his back against the entrance of the lab. She complied immediately and helped him hold the door shut.

“Jehan, be careful with Victoire!”

The poet nodded, carefully rocking the sleeping baby and holding her away from the doors and away from Ferre’s lab work.

“Combeferre, you can’t. There are too many of them, and, in case you’ve forgotten, _you’re not a fucking chemist._ ”

The bookworm grinned, his forehead dripping with sweat, his eyes shining with intent. “I had the highest score on my AP Chemistry test that my teacher had ever seen—even better than Enjolras’s. I may not be a fucking chemist, but I’m pretty damn good at chemistry. And I work better under pressure.”

He poured another vial of who-knows-what into the brown liquid he was concocting. Courfeyrac was panting from holding the door, and Éponine groaned from the pain.

“Combeferre, I _can’t_ …”

“Hold on a little longer!” he shouted, stirring a few more things into the mixture. “I think… I think I’ve got something! We have to get to the tower, I think I can la—”

Éponine shoved Nissi’s sword through the handles of the door and screamed, “That’ll hold them for a little while! Let’s get the _fuck_ out of here and to the fucking tower!”

Jehan thrusted Victoire into ‘Ponine’s arms, drawing his gun. “I’ll hold them off when they come. Go as quickly as you can.”

Éponine nodded and ran as fast as she could out of the back door. Ferre grabbed the vial and a strange contraption he’d built and sprinted after ‘Ponine, taking his boyfriend’s hand and pulling him after her as well. 

“We’re gonna beat this,” he muttered to himself, clutching the vial to his chest. “We’re going to win.”

Getting to the bell tower was easy enough, with all of the undead in the city trying to get through that door at the lab. But that quick moment of peace didn’t last long. The groaning in the distance became louder as the zombies advanced, Nissi’s sword have broken from the pressure and Jehan… Combeferre tried not to think about it. All three of them were utterly exhausted, but still continued to run.

Upon entering the tower, Courf blocked the door, and Combeferre started working on the contraption he’d brought with him. Locking the vial into it, the liquid drained into the device. It looked almost like a…

“What’s that going to do?” Courfeyrac asked him, resting his head against the door for a moment.

“If it works right, it should launch this antidote into the atmosphere and kill off anything infected with the disease. It’ll— _hopefully_ —combine with the oxygen and became a forever-present gas in the air, preventing the disease from ever surfacing again.”

“How quick will it kill them off?” Éponine asked, cradling the sleeping baby to her chest.

“I… I don’t know, exactly, but I know that once it takes effect, it’ll slowly work its way around the globe. If this works… it’ll cure the world.” 

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we have to keep looking and keep fighting until we find something that _can._ ” 

The banging on the door was enough to tell him to make his way to the window. He lifted the launcher and aimed it straight up, into the air. Upon clicking a small read button, it shot the new antidote into the atmosphere.

And nothing happened.

“C’mon…” Combeferre whispered. “C’mon, you can do it…” 

The door busted open, and the active, _moving_ zombies came barreling at them. Ferre dropped the launcher and grabbed Courfeyrac’s hand with a mighty force. Éponine took his other hand, holding the sleeping Victoire in her other arm. Together, the three of them watched as the zombies made their way over to them, all of them ready for their death. There was no other way out; the only other way out was _down_ , and the fall would kill them anyway.

“I love you,” Courf whispered, tightening his grip on his boyfriend’s hand. “I love you _both_ so much.”

They closed their eyes—all three of them—as it came upon them. Their death would finish the ABC; it would be the _death_ of the ABC. _La Mort de l’ABC_.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A resolution and an epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been an honor to work with these wonderful characters, even if I killed the majority of them (to be fair, so did Hugo). Thanks to everyone who stuck around for twenty chapters and endured all of the deaths and such. Hopefully my rendition of "heaven" makes up for all of that. Thanks so much! :)

“Courfeyrac?”

It had been two solid minutes. The groaning had stopped. The banging had stopped. The movement of feet on the weak floor had stopped. All was silent, and Combeferre was too afraid to open his eyes.

“Are we dead?” 

“… maybe?”

Upon Éponine’s answer, Ferre flicked his eyes open. She was hugging onto both him and the baby, and Courfeyrac on his other side. In front of them was god-knows how many inanimate zombies, all of them still and… _dead._

“The thing,” Courfeyrac muttered. “That antidote thing… Ferre, it _worked_.”

‘Ponine let out a cry of astonishment, and the baby woke at her outburst. She didn’t cry, or whine, or even make a sound; she just stared at the older girl in amazement.

“ _It worked._ ” 

Combeferre couldn’t believe it even when he said it. They’d won. They’d overcome the worst thing they’d ever faced and saved the name of the ABC—and the _world_.

Courf kissed him; he kissed him with every ounce of love in his soul, and Ferre returned it. After everything they’d lost—and gained, the bookworm thought, remembering his relationship and Victoire—there was still a shred of hope and love left. That fact gave him the confidence he needed to pull away from his love and stare at Éponine.

“What now?” she asked him.

“Now,” he replied, taking both of their hands once more, “now, we take this reborn world and fix it. It’s no longer a dream. We continue to fulfill Enjolras’s—and the ABC’s—wish; we change the world.”

“Not without me, I hope.”

Jehan stepped over the corpses with black oil on his body. He looked exhausted, but victorious—like the rest of them. 

“How did you survive?” Courfeyrac demanded, searching over his friend’s body.

“I’m very, _very_ clever.”

He embraced Jehan. Combeferre crashed onto them, and Éponine—after setting Victoire in her crib—joined them. That group hug radiated with the love and family that was Les Amis de l’ABC. It was like a flame, and they had just fed the fire. Nothing could compare to the love this small little surviving family shared. Nothing in the world.

# ~

“After everything we’ve been through, my love, you’re still an stubborn, rebellious son of a bitch.”

“Thank you.”

Grantaire laughed heartily. “Not a compliment.” 

Enjolras turned toward his love on top of the famous barricade, their hands touching and their noses mere inches apart. “Anything can be perceived a compliment, Taire. That’s a talent you ought to learn.”

R chuckled again, and Gavroche suddenly tugged on Taire’s pant leg from behind him. His blond hair was messed up, but, for the first time since Grantaire’s known him, the kid was completely clean. 

“I see Bahorel’s got you trying on dresses again,” Enjolras commented as Grantaire plucked a flower out of his hair. “And weaving flowers into your hair.” 

“Aye. What can I say, Angel Face? Your rebellious group has quite the effect on me. Éponine will be proud.” 

“Éponine,” Montparnasse groaned, his fingertips clicking on the table he sat at impatiently. “My beautiful ‘Ponine, carrying my child, _alive_. Damn, if I was only with her.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You forget that we are forever, now, and that she is on a path that will lead directly to you.”

“I’m an impatient man, R.”

“Oh, Parnassy,” Bahorel snickered, squeezing Montparnasse’s shoulder and coming up behind him, Feuilly by his side. “She’ll be here soon enough. For now, come drink with me! We have an eternity drink, and an eternity we shall need to drink all of this alcohol!”

“Be careful,” Margot warned, her eyes sparkling with life. “Just because we’re dead doesn’t mean we still can’t get drunk and do crazy things. Like _hitting the man you love_.”

The crossdresser pecked Feuilly on the cheek and batted his eyelashes. “I _am_ incredibly sorry about that.”

“I just can’t believe we’re together again,” Joly murmured. He had been inseparable from Bossuet since he’d arrived—or, rather, _died_. “After all this time… we all ended up in the same place. Excluding Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Éponine, of course.” 

“They saved the bloody world,” Enjolras said. “They’re excused for their absence.”

“Yes, but I hate to watch my child grow up in that dark, haunted place,” Cosette whispered, leaning into Marius as they watched out the window in the barricade. The scene depicted the four (and a half) survivors of Les Amis. Valjean gazed at his granddaughter.

“But she’ll live her life, and we’ll know her soon enough,” Marius assured her. “Besides, she’s got the three best adoptive fathers and badass mother to spoil her. And maybe she’ll get along with Éponine and Parnasse’s soon-to-be baby boy.”

Montparnasse growled, “Your daughter better stay away from my handsome son.”

Grantaire raised his wine glass, intentionally directing all attention to him. “To our survivors, and may they have the best of luck on their long, _long_ journey here; to the land beyond the stars; to our castle on a cloud. And to us, the unbroken, thriving, prosperous Les Amis de l’ABC.”

The entire group raised their glasses—Enjolras a little too high and almost splashing red wine on Grantaire—and gave a quick, hearty shout: “ _To the ABC_!”


End file.
